


In All But This

by scienceblues



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Big Bang Challenge, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-08
Updated: 2012-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 18:50:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scienceblues/pseuds/scienceblues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Transporter accidents are a captain’s worst nightmare – nearly ninety percent result in casualties or loss of life, usually with horribly mangled results. The remainder are the kind that dump emotionally traumatized versions of his First Officer in Jim Kirk’s lap, and are a different sort of nightmare altogether.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2012 ksbigbang over at livejournal. Huge thanks to my beta, sangwin (also at lj), for providing so much help, without which this wouldn’t be nearly as good. Also, I'm planning on writing a sequel dealing with AU Spock's situation at the end, so that should appear sometime within the next several months.
> 
> Warnings for: references to imprisonment, including emotional trauma, isolation, xenophobia, physical assault, forced labor, and execution; language; graphic m/m sex

Jim’s head snapped up from the requisition forms he’d been signing when the alert sounded from the science station, signaling trouble with the biological survey team on-planet. “What kind of readings are we getting, Lieutenant?”  
  
Davidson took a few seconds to double-check the readings. “Looks like a particularly strong ion storm, Captain. It’s approaching the survey site.”  
  
“Kirk to landing party,” Jim said into the chair, activating the comm built into the arm. “You there?”  
  
“Spock here, Captain.”  
  
“Get everyone together and prepare for a beam-out; you’ve got an ion storm heading your way. I’m contacting the transporter room now.”  
  
There was a brief pause over the line. “Understood, Captain. Spock out.”  
  
Once Spock acknowledged, Jim switched over the comm to link to the transporter room. “Bridge to transporter room.”  
  
“Scott here!”  
  
Good – having Scotty at the transporter controls would minimize the time needed for retrieval and greatly improved the chances of its success. “I need an emergency beaming for the landing party. There’s an ion storm heading for their area.”  
  
Scotty’s response rang clearly through the connection, and Jim turned down the comm volume with a wince. “Aye, we’re ready to start now,” Scotty finally grumbled.  
  
“Do it.” Jim cut the connection and stood, heading for the turbolift. “Chekov, come with me. Sulu, you have the conn. If the interference starts to affect our equipment, take us outside of the storm’s area of influence, got it?”  
  
Sulu’s confident “Aye, sir,” reached Jim just as the turbolift doors swished closed behind Chekov. Not for the first time, Jim briefly regretted sending Spock to lead the away team – given the natural ability of the Vulcan brain to detect and analyze patterns, there was a chance that Spock would’ve foreseen the development of the ion storm within the subtle shifting of atmospheric data. Davidson was a good officer, and one of the stars of the science division, but she was working with human limitations.  
  
Jim smiled wryly at Chekov. “Get ready for transporter chaos. I want you there to help Scotty if anything goes wrong.”  
  
The line of Chekov’s back visibly straightened at the indirect praise, and he returned the smile easily and enthusiastically. “Of course, Keptin! Mr. Scott and I have been reading the latest journals on transporter technology. He calls it our book club. Keptin, did you know that Starfleet is developing a program to correct anomalies in the beaming signature that –”  
  
The lift doors opened, and Chekov kept up a constant stream of technical chatter for the remainder of the walk to the transporter room. Jim felt a little relief at seeing six members of the landing party exiting from the room as they approached, reassured that the transporters were still functioning for the time being.  
  
“Problems so far, Mr. Scott?” Jim asked once they entered the room. Chekov made a beeline for the secondary controls, while Jim headed directly towards the comm panel.  
  
Scotty looked grim when he answered, though his sight remained focused on the screen in front of him. “I already had some difficulty getting that group up here. It wasn’t anything major, but it did cause quite the delay. Chekov, have you finished the recalibration yet?”  
  
“Yes, sir,” Chekov said quickly.  
  
“Good lad. Commander, we’re ready for more,” Scotty remarked, leaning towards Jim to speak into the comm.  
  
“The next group is prepared. Energize.”  
  
“Spock, there were thirteen officers on the away team, right?” Jim asked warily, eyeing the wavering shadows beginning to appear on the transporter pads. Next to him, Chekov frowned and tapped insistently on the screen in an attempt to stabilize the transport.  
  
“That is correct, Captain. Sickbay says Vargas brought Luka back early with a sprained ankle.”  
  
Jim rolled his eyes upward. “Why did you have to take fifteen instead of just twelve? Spock, I hope you have a damned excellent survey to show for this hassle.”  
  
The hazy forms finally solidified into his crewmembers, who immediately vacated the pads without having to be told. Scotty and Chekov turned their attentions to recalibrating the delicate sensors affected by the storm, and though Jim wished to make himself useful, he was aware that their knowledge of transporter theory went so far beyond the normal that he wouldn’t be able to keep up.  
  
The comm crackled to life again. “Fascinating. Captain, the plants here seem to respond favorably to the stimulation caused by the ion storm. Their production of cytokinins has increased by eleven percent.”  
  
Jim blinked once before rounding on the comm as though it had personally offended him. “Spock,” he began, attempting to keep his voice level, “are you seriously taking tricorder readings right now?”  
  
When Spock’s voice came through the link, he sounded like _he’d_ been offended. “Of course, Captain. What else –”  
  
“We’re ready, Captain,” Scotty announced, finger hovering over the button that would bring Spock home.  
  
“Spock, we’re doing it now,” Jim warned. Instead of wasting time on an acknowledgment, he nodded at Scotty to begin.  
  
A flare of light started forming on the pad, but the primary and secondary control screens flickered ominously only a few seconds in. “We’re losing power!” Scotty said frantically, a look of disbelief etched on his features.  
  
No _way_ Jim was letting Spock get stuck down there, alone, for the hours it would take the storm to pass. The laws of the physical world loved to wreak havoc with the _Enterprise_ ’s away missions, so it stood to reason that something bad would happen down on the surface – Spock would be attacked by a nocturnal carnivorous monstrosity, or he would become hypothermic from exposure, or he’d contract an illness resulting from prolonged exposure to that particular environment. He couldn’t leave Spock alone against an unfortunate propensity for unlucky accidents.  
  
Jim dropped to his knees and ripped off the panel protecting the transporter wiring, then dove in without a second thought. He wasn’t as academically invested in the latest transporter theories, but he was genius with electric material of any sort, and all he needed to do was get Scotty more power.  
  
He had the densely packed wiring loose beneath his hands in seconds, unfolding to reveal the delicate connections and relays hidden within. Jim ignored the segments associated with maintaining structural integrity during transport – those were perfectly _fine_ , thank you very much – and ruthlessly attacked the power relays instead, probing into the space on the wall that housed the routers. Normally, the routers obeyed the built-in safeguard that prevented the controls from receiving more than the recommended amount of power, and diverted any extra power attempting to come through to another area of the ship. When Jim mangled the wires that were supposed to pass on that extra power, however, it allowed the power to build up within the transporter controls. If he’d done it right, the transport would end successfully before the controls burned themselves out.  
  
“Aye, Captain, we’ve got him – almost finished – there we go!” Scotty crowed triumphantly, turning to high-five Chekov over Jim’s head as he extracted himself from the mess of wires he had created. As soon as the top of his head emerged, Jim twisted towards the pad, and was rewarded with a glimpse of Spock stepping down towards them.  
  
Abruptly, a wire near his head sparked angrily, forcing Jim to bolt out of the way as more and more wires followed its lead. “What the hell, Scotty?” Jim demanded, stumbling out of the way.  
  
The engineer immediately returned to the controls, surveying the output with a critical eye and a frown on his face. “It’s a massive power surge, Captain. The power you routed through here should be gone now that the Commander’s finished materializing, but…wait, we have another transport coming through!”  
  
Jim slammed on the comm button, gesturing for Spock to leave the room as light began to shimmer into existence on the pad. “Armed security team to the transporter room immediately.”  
  
Instead of obeying Jim’s unspoken command, Spock came to stand innocently beside him, loosely linking his hands behind his back. In response to the irritated glare aimed his way, Spock murmured, “Truly, Captain, you must improve the clarity of meaning behind your hand signals.”  
  
“Asshole,” Jim shot back, watching the body appear ahead of him. He hoped the team from Security would arrive soon; all they had in the way of defense was the meager barrier of the control station.  
  
The lights on the pad coalesced into solidity, filling in until they created an unmistakable form. “Spock?” Jim croaked in confusion, glancing wildly between the Vulcan next to him and the one standing on the pad.  
  
And Jim had thought _his_ Spock was thin. The one standing in front of him was absolutely emaciated, with his dirty clothes hanging limply off his body. His hair looked weird, too – buzzed close to his head, revealing a number of raised scars under the thin sheen of black, which made his ears stand out even more than usual.  
  
The other Spock’s eyes swept the room quickly in blatant bewilderment before his gaze suddenly narrowed in on Scotty. A menacing growl rumbled out of his chest, and before Jim could fully tell what was wrong, he had leapt for the engineer’s throat, clearly intent on ripping it out.  
  
Spock moved from Jim’s side to intercept the intruder midway, attempting to drop him with a nerve pinch. The other, however, saw him coming and darted to the side, expertly evading the grasping fingers before landing a blow to Spock’s side.  
  
 _Shitshitshit_ – Jim knew better than to try and insert himself between two Vulcans, especially since they were emitting various feral noises as they grappled on the ground. Even if he tried to interfere in any way, he wouldn’t be any help against a strength three times his own.  
  
Just as Jim was about to check on the status of the Security team, a quick flash of motion from his Spock’s hand sent the intruder crumpling to the floor. Spock stood gracefully and began to rearrange himself, straightening his tunic and flattening his hair into its typical arrangement.  
  
Jim caught his gaze and smiled weakly. “So, we got another you, huh?”  
  
The Security team burst through the door.  
  
* * * * *  
  
“Mr. Spock, could I have a word?” Jim called across the bridge, glaring at the screen imbedded in his chair. When he looked up a few seconds later, Spock was already standing there patiently, attentive gaze focused on him.  
  
“Um. I heard from Sickbay?” Jim started, briefly thrown off by Spock’s closeness. “Bones did a full physical; turns out he’s malnourished and a little dehydrated, but he doesn’t have any other health problems. Bones is busy pumping a nutrient solution into him as we speak. Apparently he has most of his strength, too, so he’s in restraints until he wakes up and explains the sudden murder attempt. Have any theories on how he got here?”  
  
Spock handed him a PADD containing all the information to date on the ion storm. “From Mr. Scott and Mr. Chekov’s accounts, it appears that you were able to provide the transporting mechanism with more than the amount of energy required for beaming. This excess of available power, coupled with the irregular properties and energy flux associated with the ion storm, was likely responsible for the appearance of an additional version of the being in transport.”  
  
“Which was you.”  
  
“Precisely.”  
  
Jim sighed and pulled up the data Engineering had sent through moments ago. “Scotty’s keeping me updated on the transporters, but it looks like they’re fried for the time being. I knew that was going to happen when I rerouted the power, but I thought all they’d have to do was beam _you_ up. I didn’t think we’d have to worry about returning another you afterwards.”  
  
“Understandable, Captain.” Spock paused for only a beat before continuing. “Nevertheless, I am gratified by the measures you took in order to ensure my safety.”  
  
A small grin formed on Jim’s face. It had taken a long time for the two of them to become truly close friends, and he found himself _gratified_ every time Spock recognized their friendship aloud. “Well, I can’t lose my chess buddy, can I? Besides, you’d do the same for me.”  
  
Something in Spock’s eyes softened at the words, warming Jim inside at the Vulcan’s increasing confidence in acknowledging certain emotions. “Affirmative, Jim.” The tone he usually only used in private accompanied the affectionate look, to Jim’s surprise. He’d given up on denying his huge crush on Spock ages ago, but even so, he couldn’t help the small thrill that ran through him every time Spock gave any indication of returned interest. Chess buddy, _right_.  
  
The blinking light of an incoming message appeared on the chair’s screen, taking Jim’s attention away from his First Officer. He pressed the ‘open’ option and suppressed his desire to dawdle once he read the message content. “Our visitor’s awake,” he told Spock instead, standing. Might as well get the questioning over with immediately. “Only took him what, three hours? You have the conn.”  
  
Spock raised his chin slightly, somehow managing to convey the Vulcan version of distrust. “Captain, would it not be more prudent for me to accompany you to Sickbay?”  
  
“Bones has him restrained, okay? It’s perfectly safe to be down there. You can come in a few minutes, if you want.” Jim had a strong impression that Spock held a dislike for his counterpart that went beyond the violence he’d displayed in the transporter room, and he didn’t want to start questioning the newcomer while he was being subjected to Spock’s (frankly, quite terrifying) glower. A few minutes alone with the other Spock would probably serve them best in the interest of getting the information they needed, which dealt primarily with figuring out if he was going to go homicidal on any other crewmembers. And from what he’d heard, the Spocks and Jims of all universes were supposed to be great friends, so maybe the other Spock would recognize him and be more willing to talk about where he came from. After his unexpected behavior in the transporter room, Jim was curious to hear why his Vulcan pacifism had fallen to the wayside.  
  
Spock managed to look distinctly troubled without rearranging his expression at all. “Very well, Captain. I will join you shortly.”  
  
“At least ten minutes,” Jim warned, well aware of Spock’s propensity for twisting orders into the most literal definition possible.  
  
The line of Spock’s lips tightened slightly. Ha, caught him. “Yes, Captain.”  
  
Jim threw a triumphant grin at him as the doors to the turbolift swished shut. The trip to Sickbay didn’t take long, but by the time he reached the deck he’d mostly sorted out how to phrase his questions so that he would be able to find out about the other Spock’s universe without coming across as nosy or demanding. He knew from experience that if he seemed to be either one of those, Spock would stop answering and start staring down his nose at him in distaste.  
  
Feeling pretty damn proud of assembling a game plan within two minutes, Jim practically bounced into Sickbay, ready to irritate McCoy now that he had gotten over his initial reluctance to talk to their unexpected visitor. “Hey Bones!” he called cheerfully, stopping in the middle of the room. An orderly over in the corner pointed him in the direction of one of the private observation rooms, so Jim thanked him and stepped into the room.  
  
The first thing he noticed was Chapel’s unconscious body lying on the floor at the foot of the bed, right next to the knocked-out form of one of the male nurses. Jim’s gaze snapped over to the other side of the room, where McCoy was warding off the other Spock with two loaded hyposprays.  
  
…Dammit. Okay, so he apparently needed to start carrying a phaser on board his own ship.  
  
The Spock slowly closing in on McCoy didn’t seem to notice his entrance, occupied as he was with berating the doctor. “Even outworlders need to sign consent forms to be subject to testing!” he snarled, looking both incensed and terrified, which meant that his jaw was clenched minutely and his eyes were a fraction wider than usual. “We are prisoners, not animals, and I am not _required_ to submit to your barbaric methods of –”  
  
“What, my barbaric methods of feeding you? Oh, excuse me, I’ll just spoon-feed your logical self next time you need your vitamins, _never mind that you’re unconscious_ ,” McCoy snarled right back, fully into self-righteous doctor mode. “And I’ll have you know that _I’m_ the damn CMO here, and since your green-blooded body’s malnourished, you can bet your ass that you’re required to submit to your prescribed nutrient regimen!”  
  
Jim’s attempt to sneak back out the door to page Security failed miserably when Spock ignored McCoy’s tirade and turned swiftly towards him. “Remove yourself from the vicinity of the door,” Spock ordered, brown eyes snapping with barely-controlled emotions. After becoming accustomed to seeing respect in his Spock’s eyes and fondness in the older Spock’s, Jim found the hard edge in them unnerving. They reminded him of the view he’d had while suffocating on the navigation console, which _almost_ made him want to obey the command.  
  
Jim raised his hands in a placating, peaceful gesture even as he remained near the door. “You don’t need to feel threatened, okay? Dr. McCoy was just trying to get you healthy. We’re only trying to take care of you, Spock.”  
  
Spock sent him a flat look, shifting so that he could easily keep Jim and McCoy in his sight. “Forgive me if I disbelieve you, Captain, but I am of Vulcan blood. Humans never _take care_ of outworlders, unless using it as a euphemism for execution.”  
  
Something churned in Jim’s midsection at the bleak certainty in his words, and he suddenly doubted how much he wanted to know about this other Spock’s existence. “Not here. You’re in an entirely different universe than your own, where Vulcans and humans are allies. I don’t know what’s happened to you in your universe, but I can assure you that I won’t hurt you. You’re safe here, understand?”  
  
“Safe?” Spock repeated, doubt still evident in his expression. But at least he had stopped looking like he would kill Jim once he tired of hearing him speak, so that was a definite improvement.  
  
“Yeah, definitely safe.” Jim offered an encouraging smile as he shuffled forward a half-step, hopeful that he could reach through to this Spock after all. From the other corner, McCoy looked like he was hoping Jim could do it, too.  
  
Rage abruptly flooded Spock’s expression, and he gestured mockingly to a spot behind Jim. “You would keep me _safe_ in slavery, as you have done with this one?”  
  
Bewildered, Jim turned and saw that his Spock had entered the room behind him and was holding himself very still in deference to the feral Vulcan holding the room in his sway. He turned back around and locked eyes with the other Spock, who was breathing a little heavily. “Remember how I said this is a universe different than the one you come from? This is the Spock of this universe. He’s not a slave, he’s my friend and an officer, and he’s not going to hurt you, either.”  
  
“Indeed. I will refrain from inflicting bodily harm upon your person unless you prove a hazard to the crew,” Spock confirmed, tone droll as ever.  
  
Jim shot him a confused look. How was that supposed to be reassuring? “Listen,” he said, reaching forward to soothe any feathers ruffled by the blunt phrasing, “he just means that as long as you play nice –”  
  
The very tip of Jim’s index finger accidentally brushed the outside edge of the other Spock’s wrist as he reached out. Unaware that Spock had moved, he only realized something was wrong when he turned back and saw that the Vulcan was positively _reeling_ , still frozen in place, Jim’s finger serving as a bare point of connection between them.  
  
He heard a faint growl rumbling somewhere behind him, but all of Jim’s focus was on the Spock in front of him, who was staring at Jim’s finger in what appeared to be shock. Slowly he raised his head to meet the blue gaze, and Jim was astounded to find that his eyes were filled with a brightness he had yet to see in any Spock.  
  
That look was all the warning Jim received before he suddenly found himself wrapped up in Vulcan, victim to desperately clutching hands in the vicinity of his forehead that Jim knew he couldn’t bear to dislodge. A flow of mumbled words fell from Spock’s mouth, and Jim thought that was all overwhelming enough, but then his mental shields came crashing down and Spock’s thoughts were _everywhere_ , greedily soaking up every drop of affection Jim held for his counterpart. It was dizzying, even though it was incredibly tempting to stay linked to the mind where he was wanted, and after a few seconds of feeling Spock’s crushing need for positive emotions he choked a little.  
  
“You will remove yourself from Captain Kirk at once,” came an intimidating voice outside their little bubble of Spock-and-Jim, and it was enough to make Spock pull away just slightly.  
  
The decreased body contact reduced the pressure that had been building in Jim’s head and swarming his mind with thoughts that didn’t belong to him. Breathing came a little easier after that, until Jim happened to notice his First Officer’s faintly furious expression.  
  
“What the hell?” he asked, not caring that he sounded annoyed. He unconsciously tugged the Spock holding onto him a little closer, and tried to ignore the way the tense body relaxed against his shoulder.  
  
“He is in indecent contact with your person,” Spock replied stiffly, the weight of his gaze burning into Jim and bringing him to new levels of discomfort. He was suddenly acutely aware of the physical similarities between the Vulcan he held and the one standing a few paces away. “He is taking advantage of your mental state.”  
  
 _Taking advantage_ seemed like too negative and too mild a phrase to be associated with the gentling give-and-take of emotions between them – it was intense, but Jim was only too willing to oblige the unknown need for positive reinforcement that seemed to be calming Spock down. To be honest, he wasn’t sure how much it was really helping, but at least Spock hadn’t acted homicidal in the last several minutes.  
  
Deciding that he didn’t especially care about Spock’s opinion of _indecency_ , Jim leveled a glare in his direction. Wisely, Spock snapped his jaw shut with a click and offered no further interruptions, allowing Jim to proceed with handling his alternate. McCoy briefly glanced between the two of them, then shook his head and started carting off the unconscious nurses to the empty Sickbay beds.  
  
“C’mere,” Jim murmured, disentangling himself and taking a seat on the edge of the biobed. The other Spock followed without question, settling down next to him and carefully resting his hands flat on his thighs. It was a relief to see him behaving more like the Spocks he knew, rather than the needy, touchy-feely stranger from a few minutes earlier. “Can you do me a favor?”  
  
“Of course,” Spock replied solemnly, inclining his head. Jim had to close his eyes at a brief sense of vertigo from moving so soon after a meld – it had happened on away missions before once, when moving had become necessary to staying alive, but this felt worse for all the confusion that Spock had shared with him. He ignored it and plowed forward regardless.  
  
“Can you tell me what your universe is like? You mentioned that humans and Vulcans don’t get along,” Jim prompted. He saw the familiar blank look fall across Spock’s face as he finished the question and regretted the necessity of asking. Still, he needed to know what kind of universe the ship would connect to once the transporters were repaired.  
  
Spock paused for a moment, clearly assessing what information to include in his description. Jim just hoped he was debating for the sake of timeliness, not deception. “There was a complication of sorts, at our First Contact with Earth. One member of the Vulcan party unintentionally and mistakenly displayed the extent of his strength during the initial talks, and the human with whom he was speaking became threatened. Once they left, he spread the word that the aliens were strong enough to conquer Earth if they chose, and were therefore a threat to the planet’s safety. Since then, Earth and Vulcan have been hostile to each other, capturing each other’s starships and crews as part of the conflict.” Spock’s eyes flicked away from his, and he suddenly fell quiet.  
  
“Was that what happened to you?” Jim asked softly, trying to keep him talking. Part of him didn’t want to know what had happened to this Spock to reduce him to a bony frame with shredded emotional control, but if he had to make him talk, he was going to do it in a way that didn’t damage his opinion of humans any further. The mention of long-term imprisonment and execution earlier filled in as even worse details of this other universe, now that Jim had some context.  
  
But wait… _Amanda_. For a brief, horrible moment, he wondered if she was dead in this Spock’s universe, too, but he shoved it aside for discreet questioning when Spock was under a little less stress. Regardless of that possibility – and Jim fervently hoped that he hadn’t had to go through his mother’s death like his Spock had – he’d most likely spent enough time with her to know beyond doubt that not all humans were assholes like the alternate Zefram Cochrane. And all of Earth at the time, it seemed.  
  
After an extended pause, Spock nodded curtly. “I was a science officer on a Vulcan research vessel, the _Tar’hana_ , when it was captured. Her crew has spent the last four years imprisoned on Earth.”  
  
It was starkly clear from the look on Spock’s face that he wasn’t going to elaborate on his stint in prison. Jim knew he should still press for more information or risk getting reamed out by the admiralty for being lax, but further questioning could wait until later. The starved, half-bald, big-eared Vulcan in question was still _Spock_ , and Jim had earned worse than a scolding for him before.  
  
“Okay.” Jim glanced over at where McCoy was standing in the corner, lips pressed tightly together, no doubt smothering all sorts of medical objections to Spock’s prolonged absence from a nutrient drip. “You should probably get some rest, and you should definitely take whatever vitamins Dr. McCoy says you should. And I know you don’t trust doctors and you’ll probably hate me for this, but can you please agree to stay here for treatment? I want you to get healthy, and Bones here is the best man for the job.”  
  
Spock took a moment to answer. “You will vouch that he will not cause me harm?” he finally asked, voice low.  
  
On an impulse, Jim reached out and touched Spock’s wrist reassuringly. “I will. He cares about you, too,” he said, keeping his voice just as quiet. No need to make Bones aware of the fact that he knew he counted Spock as a friend, when Bones would only deny it vehemently and then happily dose him with a vitamin hypo every day for the next two weeks.  
  
Louder, he added, “Though, you know, I can’t _totally_ promise that he won’t hurt you, since he hurts me all the time.”  
  
Both of Spock’s eyebrows rose in obvious alarm as he glanced over at McCoy, as though expecting to see a sharpened medical instrument in hand. Right, no jokes, at least for a while. Unhelpful as always, McCoy held his hands up in mock-surrender, waving the hyposprays of nutrients and sedatives and directing an exasperated scowl at Spock.  
  
“Most people can tolerate hyposprays without crying once they reach the age of ten, Jim.”  
  
“Asshole.”  
  
“Infant.”  
  
They conducted the entire exchange in a supremely friendly tone of voice and without looking at one another, causing Spock to move uneasily on the biobed. As skinny as he was, the surface of the bed didn’t even move in response to his shifting weight. “I will agree to medical observation,” he announced, glancing impassively at McCoy. His eyes returned to Jim, and he asked, “Will you also be observing me, as a study of the effects of the transporter?”  
  
Jim was about to answer that yes, they’d look into any potential issues the transporter had caused in him in a non-invasive way, when he cut through the Spock-speak and realized what he was really asking. With a grin, he promised, “I’ll visit you after my shift’s over, okay? Don’t want you going stir-crazy from being stuck in here until you’re better.”  
  
Spock nodded, expertly projecting an air of indifference. “That will be acceptable.”  
  
“Great.” Jim stood and went to the door, stopping when he was level with his First Officer. “Walk with me to the bridge, Mr. Spock?”  
  
Spock’s eyes flickered to his counterpart on the biobed, then back to Jim with an intensity he rarely saw. The nod he gave Jim looked identical to his counterpart’s, but he could still tell that Spock was displeased.  
  
Probably at him.  
  
* * * * *  
  
The rest of alpha shift proceeded with mind-numbing normality; the most exciting part came when Sciences sent up their report confirming that the plants on the planet’s surface required occasional ion storms to promote significant growth and spreading. The report arrived in Jim and Spock’s station inboxes at the same time, and Spock barely had time for an enthralled “Interesting” before Jim gave him permission to visit the botany labs. He’d intended to speak with Spock about his alternate immediately after shift, but when he was still roaming the labs after shift ended, Jim decided he’d just find him later and headed to Sickbay.  
  
A visibly aggravated Nurse Chapel greeted him at the door, saying, “Good to see you, Captain. Are you here to stop him from terrorizing everyone?”  
  
“Who, Bones or other-Spock?” Jim asked, grinning a little at Sickbay’s misfortune. Karma was _wonderful_ sometimes.  
  
“Both of them,” she said flatly. Clearly, the obvious crush Chapel had on his First didn’t extend to alternate versions of him. “The Commander’s counterpart keeps resisting any kind of additional treatment, and he snaps at the littlest things. As for Dr. McCoy…well, I thought he had trouble handling one Spock. Now that there’s another one, he’s worse than usual.”  
  
Jim refrained from mentioning the existence of a certain half-Vulcan ambassador currently residing on the colony. With the physical similarities, it was impossible to conceal the identity of their newest visitor, but only a few people knew about Ambassador Selek’s true identity. The deep red Bones had turned when Jim introduced him to the ambassador had been a sight to see, though.  
  
“I guess I’ll tackle Bones first, then,” he offered, and almost laughed at the look of profound relief that crossed Chapel’s face. “You’re feeling okay, right? No lasting damage from the Vulcan freak-out earlier?”  
  
She backed out of his way and gestured towards McCoy’s office. “None whatsoever. I’ll be fine once Dr. McCoy calms his murderous impulses.”  
  
Oh god, if Chapel was saying things like _murderous impulses_ , then McCoy really was in a foul mood. Usually she was just as bad as him when it came to terrifying patients into submission, even difficult ones who wanted to refuse treatment. “I live to serve,” he replied gallantly, and marched into the office well aware of what might lie ahead.  
  
McCoy was already in mid-bitch by the time Jim took a seat in front of his desk. “He’s been criticizing my sickbay all afternoon, can you believe it? When he’s not pointing out that the medicines are inefficiently organized – which they’re not, by the way – he’s complaining about my bedside manner. Well, I bet all my patients would prefer me to fix them and be prickly rather than actin’ all sunshine and rainbows and unable to fix them!”  
  
Wordlessly, Jim stood and fished out the well-loved bottle of Saurian brandy along with two tumblers, taking care to pour a generous portion into the doctor’s glass now that his official shift was over. He waited until McCoy had sucked down half his drink before observing, “So he’s acting exactly like our Spock, is he?”  
  
“Dammit, Jim.” McCoy sagged into his chair and glared at him while swiping a hand across his mouth. “I can barely handle one overgrown elf as it is, and now you’re expecting me to have one in my sickbay constantly while the other runs around the ship? No. Once he’s fit to discharge, I want _you_ to take him,” he declared, pointing a threatening finger in Jim’s direction.  
  
Honestly, Jim had hoped the two of them could refrain from baiting each other long enough that Spock could stay in sickbay for the night; given their track record, though, he should have known they would have come to this already. Spock and McCoy’s tempered dislike for each other bore a superficial resemblance to the resentment that had festered between Spock and Jim during their first days on the _Enterprise_ , before they started the mission for real and Jim reached out in an attempt to develop a healthy professional relationship. They still argued all the time and swore they couldn’t stand each other, but Jim knew they were an odd sort of friends. A little over two and a half years later, while Jim felt no hesitation in claiming Spock as his best friend, McCoy could still barely stand to speak with him for more than ten minutes, when any kind of interaction between the two inevitably soured. Some of that had to do with Delta Vega – Bones had admitted to holding the remnants of a grudge only once, when they were both drunk off their asses over an ensign’s senseless death – but Jim got the feeling that their frequent, mutual annoyance at each other’s behavior was often accompanied with a little bit of affection.  
  
Or maybe affection was too strong a word – affection was part of what _Jim_ felt towards Spock, but McCoy’s relationship with him was too frequently antagonistic for Jim to simplify. Regardless, he knew despite appearances that they didn’t hate each other, and he wasn’t above using that to get McCoy to hang on to Spock until Jim had a better understanding of the situation. Besides, he had to organize necessities such as a room and a few sets of clothes before Spock could be released following treatment. “I’ll tell him to play nice, Bones, but you’re going to have to put up with him a little while longer,” he said apologetically as he finished his drink and stood.  
  
McCoy huffed out a disappointed breath. “Fine. Don’t stay too long, understand? He’s still weak from prolonged malnourishment, so if he looks like he needs to rest, you need to let him.”  
  
“Got it.” Jim wandered out of the office and into Spock’s room, grinning enthusiastically when he saw that the Vulcan was sitting upright in bed, wide awake and perfectly alert. “How are you doing, Spock?” he asked, dragging over a chair so he could sit next to the bed. If his complaints about the uncomfortable sickbay chairs were particularly effective after away missions, he could occasionally get away with sitting on the very edge of Spock’s bed, well away from any accidental physical contact, but he figured he’d better not push this Spock that far.  
  
“I am much improved, Captain,” he replied, and Jim _hated_ the formal tone and the wariness that had returned to his eyes. It wasn’t fully there, but his expression was more closed off than it had been when Jim last left the room.  
  
“Come on, Spock,” Jim coaxed, briefly grasping his arm to convey his sincerity and complete lack of ill will. “It’s just me. I know humans are usually the bad guys, but you know from earlier that you can trust me.”  
  
Spock bowed his head, and even though his spine stayed rigid as ever, Jim could tell that he didn’t feel as cornered. “I understand, Captain. To elaborate, I feel well-rested and adequately hydrated. Additionally, it does not seem likely that an attack of severe cranial discomfort to which I have become accustomed is imminent.” Spock paused, took in Jim’s concentrated look as he sorted through the Spock-speak, and then added, “The human term for this affliction, I believe, is a ‘migraine.’”  
  
Jim narrowed his eyes. Not that he hadn’t suspected Spock of leading him on before, but now that he had confirmation, he was totally calling him on it next chance he got. “You know it’s called a migraine? Any time I try to use a human term like that, Spock pretends he doesn’t understand what I mean, since ‘Vulcans have superior physiological control’ or some other excuse. I totally have him figured out now, the liar.”  
  
Spock raised an eyebrow, and the familiarity of that small gesture made something ache fiercely inside Jim’s chest with the wish that this Spock, like his Spock, had been spared the ordeal of imprisonment and humiliation at the hands of unnecessarily xenophobic humans. He realized how illogical _that_ was as soon as he had the thought, because none of the Spocks he knew had led particularly happy lives thus far – this one was isolated, one had lost his planet and most of his family, and one had lost his universe in addition to all that. Still, at least Jim could do a little to help this Spock by getting him to realize that there were some humans who, like his mother, weren’t concerned about species.  
  
“My mother suffers from migraines on occasion, as a result of the differences in atmosphere and temperature between Earth and Vulcan,” Spock explained. “She has mostly adapted to the thinner air through a combination of medications and long-term exposure, but the human body is not designed to withstand the conditions that exist on Vulcan without some consequences.”  
  
Jim worried his lower lip with his teeth as he wondered whether it would be smart to ask his next question. It was possible that it would be very, very stupid, but Spock hadn’t seemed overly distressed when he spoke of his mother, so it was probably safe. Finally, he asked, “How’s your mother? If humans and Vulcans don’t get along where you come from, is she ostracized, or…?”  
  
“Apart from myself, my father, and a trusted healer, my mother’s existence is not known to any Vulcans. When my father first encountered her, she was being held in the prisons reserved for captured humans, and when he freed her in order to facilitate their bonding, it was no great leap of logic for the guards to believe that she, like several others that night, had been killed by rioting prisoners. My family’s home is far enough from the city to prevent contact with others, and when it is necessary for me to venture into Shi’Kahr, it is generally assumed that I am the product of my father’s first marriage.”  
  
Jim tried raising only one eyebrow, which, going by the subtle shift of Spock’s features, was not at all successful. “That’s really, awesomely sneaky,” he said, genuinely impressed. Honestly, he had been convinced that Vulcans weren’t capable of that level of deception, despite knowing from first-hand encounters with Selek that the pretense of Vulcans being incapable of lying was far from the truth. “So she basically gets free run of your estate without having to worry about getting found out?”  
  
“That is correct. In addition, a pseudonym has allowed her to continue publication of her research into alien languages, which she pursued prior to her capture. I asked her, once, if she found it unduly confining to be limited to the boundaries of our property, with only myself and my father for company.” A tiny, sweet smile curved at Spock’s lips. “She replied that our company was more than sufficient for her happiness.”  
  
Jim was stuck staring at the barely-there smile, completely in awe over its appearance. He’d seen it before on Selek, but never on a younger Spock, and he was surprised to find himself wishing that he was seeing it on his First.  
  
Something warmed inside his chest at the thought of _that_ smile on _his_ Spock’s face, similar to plenty other mildly embarrassing occurrences since Jim figured out the severity of his crush on Spock nearly six months ago, but he shoved it aside for later perusal and focused again on the Spock in front of him. “I’m not surprised,” he said, reflecting Spock’s smile but redirecting the conversation away from danger-ridden territory. “So what, are your migraines genetic?”  
  
Spock tilted his head slightly to the side, considering the possibility. “While the healer who attended to my family said that it was possible for my mother’s human genes to affect me in unusual ways, mostly concerning the expression of emotion, they did not begin until my incarceration. If I am not mistaken, several of the other inmates with telepathic capabilities comparable to my own in strength are similarly afflicted, due to the strong undercurrent of negative emotion among the guards within the prison.”  
  
“…You guys get headaches because they hate you?”  
  
The barest corner of Spock’s mouth twitched. “While crude, your rephrasing is essentially correct. The xenophobia in the prison is certainly strong enough to affect the telepathically gifted, even without direct physical contact.”  
  
“Oh, so now you’re gifted, are you?” Jim teased, grinning. When Spock just looked at him blankly, he remembered that this Spock was not accustomed to jokes, as his First Officer now was after more than two years spent among humans in close quarters. He certainly wasn’t as emotionally locked down as Spock had been at the beginning of the mission, probably thanks to years of his mother’s unhindered influence, but he was equally ignorant of various aspects of human culture from only interacting with those who worked in the prison; as such, Jim needed to revert back to the stage in their relationship where he had to explain unfamiliar idioms and instances of humor in order to avoid offending him.  
  
“It’s just a joke,” he reassured Spock, watching as the slight lines of tension near his temples smoothed out. “So if negative telepathic transference messes you up physically, does positive telepathic contact make you feel better?”  
  
Too late, Jim recognized the appearance of a protest on Spock’s lips. “Sorry, I forgot, you don’t _feel_. Does it physically impact you in a positive manner?” He sent an unimpressed look at Spock to convey the fact that he didn’t buy into his unemotional bullshit.  
  
Spock took a minute to answer, and before he did, he broke eye contact with Jim. “That is correct. There are many physical and psychic benefits to positive telepathic feedback, which are the primary reasons Vulcans seek out compatible –”  
  
“Sorry to interrupt, but don’t freak out, okay?” Before Spock could object, Jim carefully set his hand down next to Spock’s arm where it lay on the bed. When the Vulcan didn’t say anything, he inched closer until his fingers were resting gently against the skin of his forearm, only lightly touching him. Spock didn’t react beyond a slight intake of breath, so Jim assumed that it wasn’t too overwhelming or unwelcome.  
  
“Is this all right?” he asked, wanting to be sure. Spock nodded stiffly, and Jim couldn’t help noticing that his fuzzy head looked silly performing a motion that his Spock usually made look regal.  
  
Quietly, Spock replied, “Your emotions are…calming, Captain.”  
  
Jim shot him a blinding grin, feeling ridiculously pleased that he could do something to help Spock recover both physically and mentally. Satisfied, he leaned back in the chair, keeping his hand in contact with Spock’s arm.  
  
“So, you said you were Science Officer. What’s your ship like?”


	2. Chapter 2

Three hours later, Jim was looking over Scotty’s preliminary findings on the power surge to the transporters when his comm whistled. Setting down his PADD, he reached over and pressed the button on the desk to receive the message. “Kirk here.”  
  
“Captain, I’ve got a vidcom coming in from the admiralty,” said Ensign Suun, the beta-shift communications officer. “It’s marked Priority One.”  
  
“Forward it to my quarters, Ensign,” he replied, flicking on the vidscreen and straightening in his desk chair.  
  
“Aye, Captain.”  
  
An image flickered into existence on the screen, but took a moment to stabilize due to their current distance from Earth. When it finally did, Jim’s spine relaxed into a more natural curve than his previous posture allowed, and an inviting grin appeared on his face. “Hi there, Admiral,” he greeted, his tone reflecting extreme fondness rather than the usual severe respect reserved for conference calls with the admiralty.  
  
Onscreen, Chris Pike offered Jim a broad smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and warmed his expression, further distancing himself from the official image that the Starfleet higher-ups tended to project. “Good to see you, Jim,” he responded, leaning forward in his chair. “What’s this I hear about your ship picking up strays?”  
  
“Just one, no need to worry,” Jim returned easily. “Hey, if he’s a stray, does that mean we get to keep him?”  
  
“Because this universe definitely needs another Spock in it,” Pike replied, voice dry. Jim thought his comment might be a little bit unfair, because Pike’s never met the older Spock, despite ranking high enough to be aware of his existence. “I noticed your report didn’t have any mention of sending him back. You think you can reverse this?”  
  
“Scotty’s looking into it, so we’ll know within a few days. Theoretically, a reversal of that power surge should be possible once the transporters are back online, but there’s so much other shit that has to line up just right to transport him back into the right universe, so it’s gonna be a headache. I’ll let you know when we get a better picture of things.”  
  
“That’s what you get for playing around with other universes, Jim,” Pike told him, sounding far more cheerful than he should. “So how’s Spock dealing with this?”  
  
“Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? You have to clarify which Spock you’re talking about.”  
  
“Ours, you idiot. Your First Officer.”  
  
“He’s doing fine with it. Hasn’t indicated otherwise, anyway. I guess he’s had enough practice with meeting other versions of himself that another one isn’t hard to deal with.” Spock’s aversion to the ambassador was well-known and absolutely baffling, so Jim thought he might need to check that Spock wouldn’t _make_ it a problem later, especially with the initial chaos of his appearance.  
  
“That he has,” Pike agreed. “Well, good luck with getting the other one back. Make sure you send in a report on his universe while he’s here, too – it needs to be added to the file on the older Spock’s universe.”  
  
Jim could understand why Command might want to keep an eye on all other known universes after Nero, regardless of access difficulties. Personally, he was hoping they get to check out the one that he’d seen in the ambassador’s mind, where he had a sash, Spock had a beard, and nobody had any morals. It seemed completely warped, but it seemed like it might make for an interesting visit.  
  
“I’ll let you know as soon as we have any news, Admiral,” he said dutifully, snapping off a casual salute at the monitor in front of him.  
  
Pike looked like he wanted to roll his eyes. “Command out.”  
  
Once the image disappeared, Jim went over to the replicator and debated over dinner options, fully intending to settle in with some food and all the paperwork the malfunction had generated until Spock came over for chess later. Scrolling through the menu unearthed the few Vulcan dishes he had added to the programming for his replicator, though, and hey, maybe plomeek soup counted as comfort food? Spock claimed it contained a healthy balance of nutrients as the reason he ate it so frequently, but he usually put his Terran food selections on a rotation for the same reason.  
  
Worth a shot. At least Bones wouldn’t kick him out so soon again if he came bearing vitamins.  
  
* * * * *  
  
“This,” Jim announces as he enters with the steaming bowl held carefully in front of him, “is a direct result of my cunning and your big brown eyes, and proves that Bones will go to great lengths to keep both of us out of his hair. Bones also says that you can have more Vulcan food if this goes down well and doesn’t make your tummy hurt. Sounds good, right?”  
  
The best part was how Spock tried to pull off his customary detached expression while leaning forward with a hopeful light in said big brown eyes and reaching out for the bowl. Jim was not entirely unaffected by the display, but covered it up well enough by looking around for something to put the soup down on.  
  
“I greatly appreciate your persuasiveness, Jim,” Spock replied, obligingly unfolding the food tray into position across his lap. As soon as Jim set the bowl down, Spock started quietly shoveling soup into his mouth. Considering the lectures he received on mornings when he shared breakfast with his First about the downsides of eating at such a rapid pace, Jim knew that it was only a result of presumably no Vulcan food in the prisons, and was reluctant to disrupt Spock. However –  
  
“I’d slow down if I were you, considering Dr. McCoy won’t let you near any more soup for a few days if it causes you any problems. He said to tell you that you’re limited to one bowl right now, too.” Jim went over to the replicator on the wall and brought back a bowl of meatless chili, not wanting to risk throwing off Spock’s appetite by eating meat in the same room.  
  
“While I appreciate his concern for my welfare, I am capable of managing my own eating habits,” Spock replied, slowing the pace of his consumption only slightly. “Unless his memory is faulty, he should recall that I have done so since childhood.”  
  
Seemed like Bones had the odd luck to attract the ire of Spocks everywhere for practicing his distinctive brand of illogic. At least this Spock hadn’t mentioned anything about beads and rattles substituting for medical equipment yet. “He always makes sure the other you eats properly when he’s stuck in here, since it’s the only time Spock _has_ to pay attention to all the nagging.”  
  
“A crude, if effective, method of operation,” Spock responded disdainfully, taking another spoonful of soup.  
  
“I’m guessing you don’t know a McCoy where you come from?” Jim asked, uncertain how Spock would take the new line of questioning.   
  
“I do not. The only member of your crew I have met previously is your chief engineer.”  
  
“What’s Scotty like there?”  
  
It took Spock a moment to reply, during which he set aside his spoon for a break to pacify McCoy. “He is not pleasant,” he finally settled on saying, which Jim figured was a massive understatement. “Most of the prison staff are qualified only for basic duties and must serve at a detention center instead of joining the armed forces onboard Earth’s fleet. Engineer Scott is obviously much more qualified than all those beneath him, including some of the high-ranking prison staff, and it is equally obvious that he is dissatisfied with his assignment.”  
  
“Our Scotty was exiled, too,” Jim remarked. “Theoretical physics demonstration gone wrong. Yours might be stationed there for a similar reason.”  
  
“That seems likely. He performs demonstrations of his technological improvements frequently, although he has sanction from the prison board. Due to the long-standing nature of the war with Vulcan, the prisons often combine research with incarceration. Most are medical in nature, but Engineer Scott’s collaborative efforts produce innovative technologies to disrupt telepathy and render Vulcans deaf to other minds.”  
  
Even with his limited understanding of Vulcan telepathy, Jim understood the level of that offense. As Spock had haltingly explained during the early months of their mission, Vulcans required meditation in order to control their emotions and strengthen defenses against distraction from other minds, certainly, but also to tap into the collective conscious built of the early mind-sharing that developed telepathic techniques over time. Returning to that well of souls provided stability to any Vulcan in conflict, and to have it ripped away – or damaged in one blow, another consequence of Nero’s strike against the species – removed that support until the individual could no longer cope with outside forces using Surak’s precepts. Too many young or inadequately trained Vulcans had died as a result of their race’s depleted consciousness in the wake of the planet’s destruction, and to have it blocked irreversibly would do unthinkable damage to the mind in question before it shut down permanently.  
  
That level of experimentation went far beyond any kind of torture found in the Federation. Jim wondered if the other Earth had allied with one of the independent empires, to make its use so widely practiced on prisoners. “I grieve with thee,” Jim said, at a loss for anything else to convey his sympathy without sounding pitying. He hoped he wasn’t misappropriating the ritual phrase.  
  
Spock inclined his head in acceptance of the sentiment. “I do welcome the difference in your crew’s behavior from most humans I have encountered. Unlike the rest of my crew, I am not inherently biased against all humans as a whole due to my mother’s influence, but interactions with most humans are trying. It is most fortunate that I am unfamiliar with your counterpart, in particular,” Spock commented innocently, finishing up the last of his soup. “I find your company most agreeable, and your disposition seems compatible with my own. There is a ninety-nine point nine seven chance that this would not be the case if I had met the other Jim Kirk.”  
  
“I don’t know about that,” Jim objected amiably. “Spock’s my best friend now, but he hated me for a pretty good reason at the start of the mission. Besides, Scotty’s in charge of repairing the transporters in order to send you back, so you’ll probably run into him at least a few times. You won’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to, though.”  
  
“Fortunately, I have had little direct contact with Engineer Scott. I will have no difficulty with occasional interaction,” Spock said, sounding more confident than anything he’d said since he appeared. Even so, it didn’t entirely convince Jim.  
  
“Well, you’re not a Starfleet officer, so you get a bit more leeway,” Jim stressed. Spock nodded in dignified acknowledgement, but the effect was somewhat dampened a moment later when he failed at fully hiding a yawn.  
  
After the second barely-contained yawn ten minutes of conversation later, Jim gathered up the dishes and deposited them into the recycler on the far side of the room. “Listen, I should let you get some rest before they kick me out of here. Is it alright if I visit you sometime tomorrow?”  
  
“Certainly, Jim,” Spock replied, raising an eyebrow. “I do require your superior expertise in fending off the Sickbay staff.”  
  
“Good point.” Jim grinned and leaned against the end of the biobed. “Hey, is there anything I can get you to help you meditate?”  
  
“I do not believe I have the focus required for meditation tonight,” Spock said. “Perhaps it will be possible tomorrow.”  
  
“Fair enough. I’d better go get some work done before the other you finishes up his shift.”  
  
Spock tilted his head to the side curiously. “Do you work together often outside of shift?”  
  
“We do,” Jim confirmed. “I told you we’re good friends. No paperwork tonight, though – we just have a chess date.”  
  
The eyebrow flew up again.  
  
As soon as he realized what it might sound like, Jim started backpedaling. “ _No. No we do not._ We’re hanging out and playing chess later, and that’s – I’m going to leave now, okay?”  
  
Not a date. As much as he might want it to be a date, it wasn’t. It was just the same way they met many nights, with no romantic intent, because while they’d danced around this for _ages_ , Jim had just never gotten around to acting on it, and – _dammit_. He should really leave.  
  
Spock didn’t look up from carefully straightening the sheet pooled in his lap when he said goodbye.  
  
* * * * *  
  
By the time the knock came on his door, Jim was more than ready for chess and company as a distraction. Paperwork was tiresome, sure, but rarely required his full attention, leaving him brooding over the new details of the other Spock’s universe. They were disturbing in their similarity to what Ambassador Selek had told him the other distinct timeline the _Enterprise_ had encountered in his early years of service, in that Earth had attacked or made conquest of star systems that by all rights should be allies. At least in this one, Earth’s suspicions remained fixated only on Vulcan. From what Jim knew of the ambassador’s experience, inhabitants of the universe he’d encountered didn’t particularly care who stood on the receiving end of their violence.  
  
“Come,” Jim called out, stepping out from behind his desk as Spock entered, carrying a PADD tucked under one arm. One of the requirements for chess, it seemed, was a particularly bitter-smelling Vulcan spiced tea. Grateful for something familiar and uncomplicated to seize on, Jim started towards the replicator to busy himself with the task.  
  
“Good evening, Jim,” Spock greeted, walking into the room instead of hovering near the doorway. It was a recent development despite their firmly established friendship, and Jim couldn’t help silently cheering every time it happened. “I had thought to visit the mess for dinner before our match; would you care to accompany me?”  
  
Glancing down at the mug of tea the replicator had just produced, Jim replied, “I already ate, actually, but I’m always up for a snack. You can eat here, though, if you’d prefer.”  
  
Spock’s eyes narrowed at the mention of snacks, probably recalling Jim’s unashamed predilection for sugary desserts, before deciding, “I will eat dinner here.” Then he asked, “Who did you dine with earlier?”  
  
Not the desserts, then. “The other you. I thought he might like some company for dinner, so I ate down in Sickbay.” Jim shrugged and smiled charmingly, placing the mug down on the chess table and hoping that Spock’s initial dislike of his counterpart had diminished in the hours since his arrival. “Did the transporters keep you busy until after dinnertime? You’re always on my case about skipping meals, but nobody’s going to listen while you’re doing the same exact –”  
  
“Did he manage to restrain his violent tendencies throughout the entirety of your meal?” _Clearly_ Spock was not over his dislike, judging by the disdain evident in his voice. Usually he reserved the tone for hapless ensigns creating a lab environment with the potential for disaster, keeping the tone in store for rare occurrences that warranted a lasting lesson to avoid the circumstances that provoked it. Essentially directing it at himself seemed a bit extreme.  
  
As a result, Jim’s voice came out a bit louder than before, an unconscious attempt at defensiveness that he ordinarily tried to suppress when possible. “What do you have against him, Spock?” he asked, stepping closer until they were nearly toe to toe. “I like him; so should you!”  
  
Taking a careful step back, Spock murmured, “It is a Vulcan matter.”  
  
“Fair enough.” One deep breath, and Jim returned to his former state of not-quite-calm. He returned to the replicator and asked, “What do you want to eat?”  
  
“I did not mean to –”  
  
“I know you’re a private species, alright?” And Jim did know it, with a deep familiarity that unsettled him. Until this mission, he’d not had much contact with Vulcans beyond the occasional guest lecturer, resulting in most of his information coming from news stories and the interspecies diplomacy textbooks that were mandatory reading for Starfleet officers. This knowledge had an echo that suggested it came from experience that he didn’t have, marking its origin from Spock’s older counterpart and discouraging Jim from prying at possible future events. “So if you say it’s something Vulcan, I’ll let you deal with it yourself. Unless it becomes necessary to the safety of the ship or for getting him back where he should be, I’ll leave it alone.” He _wanted_ to pry, badly, but he could curb the urge, especially if Spock started to warm to his counterpart in the meantime. “Yes or no on dinner?”  
  
“Andorian root salad would be appreciated,” Spock replied quietly, taking a seat at the small table housing the chess set. When Jim returned bearing the dish and took the other chair, he continued, “I did not mean to imply that I do not wish to share the information with you. I am merely unsure if it is an issue, and will make you aware after further observation.”  
  
Somewhat reassured, Jim nodded and started resetting the board. Good to hear, though he didn’t like the idea of a potential issue left unresolved for too long. “Fair enough,” he agreed, watching Spock begin picking at the vegetables. Despite his hostility earlier, his First Officer didn’t seem particularly troubled; he grasped his fork loosely, and he allowed his left shoulder to relax into a minute downward slant while not in use.  
  
Their usual atmosphere has returned to the room, prompting Jim to pour a brandy and listen to the progress made on the transporters Spock described between bites. With the recent proof that travel between universes was possible – and survivable – under certain conditions, the scientific community’s interest in alternate times had grown and resulted in several noteworthy papers, all of which were proving useful to the repairs and recalibration attempts.  
  
“What should we use to test the destination, then?” Jim finally asked, when it seemed as though Spock had determined a return trip could be a viable option with enough time and testing. “Hard to tell if it gets through to the other side in one piece, but we can’t send him through without some kind of safety measures in place. Organic material won’t give us that information…maybe a transmitter of some kind?”  
  
Spock considered for almost a full minute, taking another small bite in the interim. “Perhaps a small probe could transmit a small burst of data to one of the more sensitive receivers on board,” he said slowly. “Modifications could be made to a tracking transponder, or potentially even one of the locators embedded in the shuttle guidance systems. Such an exchange would likely be nearly unintelligible and almost certainly faint, but any kind of signal would indicate a successful trial. It is not foolproof, Jim, but it certainly has merit.”  
  
“Okay – get the lab techs who aren’t working on transporter repairs to try boosting the signal capabilities on the longest range transmitters we have. With the other you in prison, it’ll have to be small so that nobody notices. If they start tomorrow, it might be done right on time for trials. I’ll have to brief the senior crew tomorrow, too, so they can help oversee the design process if their departments get involved.”  
  
Spock nodded and set aside his cleared plate to type a rather lengthy notation on his PADD. Combined with the speed with which he typed, the message seemed long enough that he was likely sending out a notification to all relevant staff immediately. Not exactly what Jim had in mind, which was an unusual occurrence with how smoothly they typically worked together as of late, but he put it down to the delicate nature of the situation his counterpart’s arrival had put them in. While Spock prepared the message, Jim stood to clear the plate and glasses, refilling the mug of tea and getting coffee for himself before they started a game.  
  
“If I may ask, why did you share a meal with my counterpart?”  
  
The words came while Jim’s back was turned, so while he noticed that Spock sounded like his usual calm self, he replied blandly as he could in case he was missing a facial cue pointing towards some remaining bias. “He’s stuck in Sickbay for the next day or two at least, and I know how visitors help with cabin fever. Besides, you’re good company for dinner, so I figured that part might not be so different.”  
  
“Was it?”  
  
Jim shrugged. “For the most part. He’s still suspicious of most humans, though. Hard to imagine what Earth must be like where he comes from.”  
  
The game started in silence, not unlike many of their matches. Because Jim had won the last time they played, Spock had white, and began moving in more aggressive patterns than his typical style. After having his second bishop captured, bringing the total of black pieces off the board to seven, Jim started considering the risks of asking what part of the situation was troubling Spock at the moment.   
  
When Spock finally spoke up, saving Jim from having to phrase a question delicately enough to prevent another potential disagreement, he continued from their last statement. “My counterpart demonstrated a strong reaction to Mr. Scott’s presence. Has he taken similar notice of any additional crewmembers?”  
  
“Actually, he has!” Jim snapped his fingers and leaned forward conspiratorially, his next move momentarily forgotten. “It’s the weirdest thing; remember how he nerve pinched Chapel earlier? She came in with some meds while I was in the room after shift and he apologized for knocking her out. After she left, he told me that she works in the prison infirmary and treats him decently whenever he’s in there, but he still didn’t want to talk to her at any point.”  
  
Apparently the arrangement of pieces on the lowest level of the tri-D board posed a difficult enough defense to warrant Spock’s scrutiny. Unable to prevent his small smile from growing at the display, Jim continued, “Anything you’d like to share with the class, Spock?”  
  
“It is not outside the realm of possibility that Nurse Chapel shares the same apparent fascination with me in both universes,” the Vulcan replied, nearly mumbling his response.  
  
“Wait, Chapel has a crush on you? How did I not know about this?”  
  
“You are at least consistently unaware of all romantic inclinations among the crew,” Spock said, raising one eyebrow. Though he spoke quietly, the bitter tone of his response was clearly audible.  
  
“You are _obviously_ forgetting the fact that I totally knew that Scotty and Uhura had a mutual thing months before they actually got together,” Jim objected, finally remembering to move his knight. He knew he was ducking out of a potentially productive discussion, but after a day of dealing with an emotionally damaged Vulcan, of all things, he didn’t feel up to navigating that kind of conversation. “Chapel, though? I thought she had a scientist boyfriend off at some research station.”  
  
“Fiancé,” Spock corrected, countering with another approach towards Jim’s queen. “However, his expedition has been out of contact for the entirety of the mission and is missing, presumed dead. Evidently sufficient time has passed for Nurse Chapel to accept his disappearance and relocate her affections.”  
  
“To you?” Jim let out a little laugh. “Well, at least she chose well.”  
  
“I would say she did not, considering I have no emotional interest in her,” Spock demurred, checkmating Jim neatly.  
  
“Oh yeah?” Jim asked with a grin, sliding his legs forward to lean against Spock’s. He tipped over his king amiably and leaned across the table towards Spock, bracing his elbows on either side of the board.  
  
“Indeed.” Spock swallowed and then reached between the bracket of Jim’s arms to collect his captured pieces. “At present, my interest is occupied elsewhere.”  
  
The grin grew wider. “Well, good to know I’m not the only one,” Jim replied, smoothly disentangling his legs and drawing away, fully retreating to his side of the table.  
  
Completely ignoring the disbelieving glower Spock sent his way, he set the board for another game.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Most of the senior crew arrived in the briefing room before Jim did, just in time for the meeting to start. “Where’s Bones?” he asked, taking a seat at the head of the table.  
  
“Doctor McCoy has been detained by an incident of minor illness and shall arrive momentarily,” Spock answered, reading from the PADD in his lap.  
  
“Just ‘momentarily?’ You don’t have a closer estimate?” Jim teased lightly, looking for a distraction.  
  
Looking up from the message, Spock raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Captain, that timeframe comes from the doctor. As I am unaware of the specifics of the situation, I am unable to offer a revised estimate.”  
  
“Guess I’ve gotten spoiled,” Jim replied idly, looking around the table while he waited. Sulu and Chekov were engaged in a quiet game of twenty questions to pass the time, much like particularly slow shifts on the bridge. Uhura hummed an unfamiliar melody, and Scotty was occupied with one of his ever-present technical journals. Jim busied himself with chugging his third cup of coffee while they all waited for Bones, since he had a large role in the explanation of this new Spock’s appearance.  
  
Five minutes after the meeting was supposed to start, Bones charged in. “Had a possible case of Rigelian fever that turned out to be a combination of the flu and a new allergic reaction,” he said apologetically. “Didn’t mean to hold everything up.”  
  
Waving off the apology, Jim stood to start the meeting. “Some of you already know parts of this, but yesterday we had an unexpected transporter event that essentially dragged another Spock from a parallel universe into ours. This universe is significantly different from ours in that the relations between Earth and Vulcan are hostile. Despite this, the other Spock is _not_ considered hostile, since he understands that humans pose no threat to him outside of his universe. That being said, if any of you are around him, try to avoid any kind of behavior that might stress him so that we don’t have any accidents or misunderstandings. Doctor McCoy?”  
  
“He’ll be kept in isolation in Sickbay for the rest of the day, but after that, I have no medical reason to keep him that outweighs the benefits of being released. My recommendation, since he’s not considered a threat to the ship, is that he should be allowed to move freely about the civilian-access areas of the ship, but also able to retreat to guest quarters when necessary. Beyond that, some socialization will probably be helpful as long as nobody overwhelms him. He’s not in the best physical shape, either, so don’t keep him running around for too long. I’ll add instructions if things change during the time when he’s on the ship, but that’s about all for now.”  
  
“Excellent. Mr. Scott, I’d like to hear about the transporter repairs from you next, and then Mr. Spock will discuss the division of labor among departments for testing methods for returning his alternate to the proper universe.”  
  
Scotty’s report was brief, considering the commonplace nature of the current repairs. Attempting to determine how to lock onto Spock’s last coordinates would come later, after the engineers finished the basic repairs. Predictably, Spock’s report took much longer to relay, considering his detailed assignation of duties to different labs, forcing Uhura and Scotty to take notes because of their departments’ higher level of involvement in transmitter design and construction.  
  
By the time both of them finished, Jim felt more than ready to break for shift, even with the looming threat of more piles of paperwork bound for Command. “Any further questions?” he asked. When nobody replied, he continued, “Sulu, Chekov – you’ll take the bulk of the supervising duties on the bridge with the younger crew. I’ll be around to check up on progress in all departments, but make sure to submit updates on these projects in addition to the regular end-of-shift reports. Dismissed.”  
  
* * * * *  
  
“Go away.”  
  
“I could’ve been one of your staff. That would be very rude, Bones.”  
  
“Nobody else clunks around like you do. Also, newsflash? I _am_ rude.”  
  
“Even to the ones you love?”  
  
Finally, _finally_ , Bones looked up from the stack of patient reports in front of him. “Jim, you’re supposed to flatter the person you want something from, not yourself. What are you here for?”  
  
“I need to steal one of your patients for a few hours.”  
  
“Captain’s order, huh? What do you need him for?” Bones asked suspiciously.  
  
“I just want to show him the ship,” Jim said, looking as innocent as possible.  
  
As expected, McCoy’s face flushed a dull red to accompany his outburst at the suggestion. “Are you out of your mind? I know you’re stupid in love with this goddamn tin can, Jim, but you can’t go absconding with my patients whenever you think they might like the grand tour! Spock’s supposed to be resting while he can, not parading around all the decks, and _certainly_ not being forced to listen to you wax all poetic about your girl!”  
  
Readying for a drawn-out argument, Jim grabbed the chair in front of McCoy’s desk and settled in. “Spock said he worked on a Vulcan science vessel, right? Well, if Earth’s as xenophobic as he says it is, their ships are all probably human-designed, just like most of the systems on the _Enterprise_. If I show him some of the ship’s controls and let him look at some of the design blueprints, he’ll be a lot better equipped to steal an Earth ship and get back to Vulcan if he ever breaks out of jail. Listen, I just thought of it ten minutes ago, or I would have told you beforehand to give you more time. This could really help him when he gets back.”  
  
The plea earned him a solid thirty seconds of Bones’ terrifying glare before he seemed to give in. “You would think of ways for him to steal a ship of all things, wouldn’t you. He really _is_ supposed to be resting, but you can take him on a few conditions. One: you will make a stop at least once every half an hour for a period of no less than ten minutes and allow him to sit. Two: you will take him down to the mess and feed him a full meal within the next two hours. He knows what foods he should and should not eat, as I’ve already given him the basic list. Make him have another full meal for dinner if you two stay out that long, too. Three: no advanced physical exertions, up to and including crawling around Jefferies tubes.”  
  
“The hell would I take him in there for?”  
  
“You and a Spock? I can’t imagine.” McCoy cleared his throat pointedly at Jim’s hasty flush and repeated, “ _No Jefferies tubes_. If you can stick to those rules, you two can have your field trip. Deal?”  
  
“Deal,” Jim agreed gleefully, standing to leave.  
  
“I’m going to discharge him tonight, anyway, so not like it matters too much,” Bones grumbled. “Just make sure to bring him by here for another check-up to make sure he’s fine after you’re done, alright? Physically, he’s not so bad off, and it’ll do him a world of good to get his own guest cabin and actually _feel_ like he’s free here.”  
  
“I’m having one of the VIP rooms set up for him after we’re done,” Jim promised. “Technically speaking, he’s a visiting scientist.”  
  
“Glad we’re in agreement,” Bones said dryly. “Now get out, for real. I have a backlog of physicals to get through now that I don’t have idiot crewmembers bleeding all over my sickbay from landing missions for once.”  
  
“Hey, half the time that’s me.”  
  
“Like I said. Idiot.”  
  
* * * * *  
  
The officer’s mess was full of empty seats, making it preferable to the main mess and its usual glut of off-shift crew for their mandated lunch hour. After being served by the replicator and letting Spock punch in his selection, Jim found them a spot on the opposite side of the room from a small cluster of lieutenants from navigation.  
  
He knew that Bones resorted to some sneaky methods on his diet card to get him to eat healthier, but he didn’t really understand why _green beans_ went with a sandwich, even though he knew he should be grateful that he wasn’t stuck with collard greens. “So what did you think about the access points?” Jim asked, forgoing the vegetables for the moment.  
  
“I confess that I do not understand why a ship so advanced has so many locations that make sabotage possible,” Spock admitted. They’d toured some of the out-of-the-way storage closets and control rooms that housed the back doors into many aspects of the ship’s functions, which had taken up all of their allotted time before Spock needed to eat. “Did the designers assume that boarding would be impossible due to the shields and ignore any other possibilities?” He actually _sounded_ concerned, and Jim couldn’t believe he was the only one around to hear it.  
  
“We’ve only been boarded by the enemy once, you know,” Jim said around the bite of sandwich in his mouth. Spock looked less than impressed. “But we’ve had a few attempts at sabotage from diplomatic aides we’ve transported, so I see your point. The main problem they have is that they don’t get the all-inclusive tour I’m giving to you, and since most of the access points are hidden or tucked away or disguised as serving a minor function, it’s pretty damn hard to take over the ship unless you have that prior knowledge. Mostly it’s useful if there’s a hostile takeover of part of the ship – which _has_ happened before, and I hope it won’t again – so that crewmembers stranded in the captured areas can fight back, or in case of a bridge takeover where we would need to control the ship from somewhere else. That’s the function that could be useful to you, if your Earth’s starships are built with any of these back doors.”  
  
Before Spock had the chance to reply, Jim heard a loud voice saying, “Was that why you were pokin’ around in Engineering earlier? Some of the ensigns told me they saw the two of you in just about every corner of the department. Everyone was mighty glad to see you up and about, Mr. Spock.”  
  
Jim grinned as Spock blinked several times at Scotty, seeming to be at a momentary loss for words. For his part, Scotty sat down next to Spock without concern for yesterday’s attempted attack in the transporter room. “So you’ve been to all the secret rooms, yeah? Did you tell him about the updates?” he asked suddenly, frowning at Jim.  
  
“…Updates.” Almost all of Scotty’s not-strictly-regulation improvements to the ship afforded them some kind of advantage, but the engineer hadn’t brought any updates to Jim’s attention recently. Being out of the loop on any information regarding the ship always left Jim feeling off-balance, but usually it resulted from discussions with Command, not Scotty.  
  
“Aye, the modifications! I added a few extra layers required for the overrides to improve the security.”  
  
At least Jim finally had confirmation that Scotty did not trust anyone involved in Starfleet’s manufacturing division. Also, what was probably a pathological need to adjust every part that came his way to his specifications.  
  
“That’s actually not what I needed to show him, but get me a report on what exactly you changed about the security protocols, alright? Finish the transporter repairs first, but then that becomes first priority.”  
  
Chagrined, Scotty said, “I updated the information in the ship’s computer, Captain. I thought I already gave you a report, but I’ll get that to you right away.”  
  
“Good,” Jim said, still feeling a bit unsettled by the lack of documentation on the improved protocols. “Feel free to include any other modifications you’ve made recently.”  
  
“Not to worry, sir, that’s the only one since the last time I submitted a report,” Scotty assured him. “So, Mr. Spock, what was the captain showing you about those stations?”  
  
“Captain Kirk is under the assumption that when I am returned to my universe of origin, I can use the knowledge of such design features to effect an escape from prison,” Spock answered. While his voice carried no traces of yesterday’s hesitation around humans, his tightly clasped hands hinted at a lingering difficulty in carrying on a conversation with a member of the same race of his captors, especially one with the reputation of Scotty’s counterpart.  
  
Despite the obvious effort it took to talk to Scotty, Spock listened as the engineer added ideas for the best use of the access points, including several tactical advantages Spock could gain by exploiting them. Some of them went beyond what even Jim thought they could be used for. With the discussion continuing around him, Jim contented himself by picking at the green beans and waiting for Spock to finish his portion of pre-approved foods.  
  
Somewhere along the way, the topic changed to the progress on transporter repairs, and Jim was able to ask for clarification on a few of the points Spock had mentioned during chess last night. This Spock demonstrated an understandable interest in connecting to his point of origin for a successful return, enough that Jim wasn’t surprised when Scotty asked, “Would you like to come down to see the repairs? Commander Spock’s down with my team right now, but we could use another scientist there, if you feel up to it.”  
  
“If it is no trouble to you, Captain, I would appreciate the chance to examine the transporter more closely,” Spock said quietly to Jim. The response came after hardly any hesitation, making it clear that Jim should really get back to the bridge and let him go play with the other geniuses.  
  
“No trouble at all,” he replied, feeling hopeful about the fact that Spock actually felt ready to go socialize with the repair crew of engineers and scientists. “Just make sure you eat dinner at a normal time and report in to Sickbay afterwards, or Dr. McCoy will have my head, alright?”  
  
Spock nodded dutifully and warmly said, “Thank you, Jim,” before standing to discard his tray and leave with Scotty.   
  
…That was unexpected. What the hell were Spocks made of, anyway? Apparently his claim from last night that he could handle Scotty was true, but there was still quite a difference between tolerating someone’s company and actively seeking to assist them with work.  
  
Jim discarded that line of thinking as he dumped the remaining crumbs on his plate into the recycler, intending to catch up with the work he’d abandoned earlier in favor of showing the ship to Spock. He’d have to let Spock handle the situation with Scotty on his own and focus on supplying the admiralty with the information they demanded.  
  
As much as Jim wished for some work to keep him busy while Spock’s presence kept the ship tied to this orbit, he should have known it would just be more forms to fill out. Sighing, Jim told Sulu to keep the conn and locked himself into the small office with a sigh, ready to finish all the paperwork by the end of shift.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Even though the bulk of the paperwork consisted of signing off on updates from maintenance and adding to the report on the other Spock’s universe, it still took Jim the remainder of alpha shift to finish all the forms, even with the barrier against interruption that came from working in the ready room so Sulu could manage the bridge. With the lack of activity and position in a safe part of Federation space, the senior crew shifted bridge duty to younger, less experienced officers in each department, keeping only one of the senior staff on hand for supervision. Exposure to the responsibilities involved in bridge duty always paid off in increased efficiency ratings during the next testing period, but eliminated most of Jim’s duties during a shift. Arranging for a maintenance crew to prepare guest quarters ate up part of his time, at least, and kept him busy until half an hour into beta shift.  
  
“Computer, what is Commander Spock’s location?” he asked tiredly, realizing with a groan that he’d missed dinner.  
  
“Commander Spock is located in Botany Lab Four and Sickbay.”  
  
“Oh.” Jim blinked at the computer, wondering how there wasn’t an error message attached to the pronouncement that Spock’s life signs were in two separate places on the ship. Quickly, he fired off a message to Computer Sciences to check the problem, deciding he could look at it himself later.  
  
At the very least, _he_ knew which Spock was which, and headed down to Sickbay to drop in on Spock’s physical. When he arrived, Bones sounded like he’d just about finished his typical long-winded pre-release lecture, and judging by the blank look on Spock’s face, he was ready for it to be over.  
  
“We all know that you’ve gotten all the important instructions out of the way during the first ten minutes of your speech,” Jim interrupted. “And yes, Bones, he’ll remember to brush his teeth after meals and go to bed before midnight. Can he leave now?”  
  
“I know Jim is going to be a bad influence on you,” Bones told Spock frankly, “but you’re sensible enough to know when he’s being a damn fool, so keep an eye on him, if you don’t mind. Don’t let him tempt you into eating any foods off of the approved list, either – if you stick to the diet we’ve drawn up, you should be able to put on a few pounds and improve various aspects of your health while you’re here. Before midnight isn’t a joke, either, alright? I want you to get a good night’s rest tonight, after tramping all over the ship like you did today.”  
  
“Very well, doctor,” Spock said gravely.  
  
Jim conveniently chose to ignore the direct dig at his childishness in favor of grabbing Spock by the elbow to steer him out of Sickbay, calling out a goodbye to Bones as he led. Earlier, he hadn’t gotten the opportunity to give Spock more of those small touches that conveyed how important he was to him, how important he could still be to those in his own universe, and seized the chance in the process of escaping Medical’s clutches. To his credit, Spock didn’t even startle at the initial contact, making Jim practically glow with pride at his progress.  
  
“Got some roomy quarters fixed up for you,” he announced as they swept into the turbolift as one unit. “Deck six,” he said, and the computer chimed in affirmation as the lift started to move. “It has a computer terminal with access to all parts of the ship’s computer, if you want to look at blueprints or check on Science’s results on the transporter tests or, hell, even read up on the political situation here. There’s a personal replicator there as well, though you’re welcome to join me or any of the crew you’ve met so far for meals in the main mess or officers’ mess.”  
  
They stepped off the lift and walked only a short distance before they reached Spock’s assigned room, one of those typically granted to non-Federation ambassadors on the occasions when the _Enterprise_ served as a taxi service to transport them safely to peace conferences. Its relative seclusion from the crew but easy access to the mess and built-in amenities made it ideal for Spock to occupy for the next few nights.  
  
After much finagling and recoding of the heavy-duty replicator designed to produce crew uniforms, Jim had also managed to produce a few more personal touches to the small suite, in hopes of giving Spock even more of a respite during the hours spent away from the issue of returning home. The brown woven mat was similar in material and appearance to the one tucked away in his First Officer’s closet for meditation, the feel of this replacement modeled after the flex and give of the yoga mats stored in the computer’s memory for recreational uses, though Jim was not familiar enough to know if it would serve as an acceptable substitute. Likewise, the totem was simply a stone firepot instead of the ornately carved icon fashioned by Vulcan artists, and the candles were scented of sandalwood and cinnamon, not the pungent combination of Vulcan spices. Though it was only made of what Jim could squeeze out of the replicator’s materials, the aspects of the display combined to form a decent approximation of a meditative setting.  
  
“It’s the best I could do on such short notice, since we’re not near any starbases that might stock some of the more traditional materials. Will you be able to use this at all?” Jim asked.  
  
Spock took in the setup with a carefully neutral expression, though he wasn’t able to fully control the slight waver in his voice when he spoke. “I thank thee, Jim,” he said. The unusually formal words held a ritual feel to them. “Your service honors me.”  
  
“Close enough, then?”  
  
“I have not had the opportunity for deep meditation in three point seven years, and it is unlikely that I possess the mental control required to access the higher levels of meditation. I will not require any additional aids for the first three levels. These materials are more than adequate.”  
  
Relieved, Jim flashed a grin. “Glad to hear that it’ll work. I’ll let you get started on your meditation, okay?”  
  
Spock nodded. “Very well. I will see you tomorrow, Jim.”


	3. Chapter 3

By midmorning the next day, Jim was buried in transporter innards, folded tightly into the cabinet containing some of the supplemental relays down in Engineering. One of the more difficult parts of returning Spock to his point of origin, other than getting the transporters back online, was establishing a connection to the other universe. Instead of trying to reconnect with it by beaming him out under conditions similar to the exact ion storm that brought him to the _Enterprise_ , which carried a significant chance of sending him to another unknown parallel, Jim had a hunch there might be enough data stored within the life sign recognition that beamed him aboard to determine a more accurate way of putting his original location into the controls. So far, nothing had turned up.  
  
However, the transporter employed a recognition system for ship personnel based on life signs, where Jim hoped to find the information stored on the last beam-out for the ship’s First Officer. Comparing that set of data to the set stored in the system for the other Spock might yield a few slight differences that could contain the information on where exactly the transporter retrieved Spock, giving them enough to replicate the transport between universes.  
  
“Doing alright there, lad?”  
  
With a sigh, Jim released the relay in his hand and extricated himself from the cabinet to talk to Scotty. “No luck yet. Has your crew found anything?”  
  
Scotty shook his head, looking dismayed. “Nothing from them, but if there’s something to find, we’ll find it, Captain. I’m sure of it. How are the new bridge shifts working out? Are they going to need replacing sometime soon?”  
  
Right. Kicked out of one of his own ship’s departments, and none too subtly, at that. “They’re doing well, so far,” Jim replied, heading for the door. “I should probably…do a surprise check-in, though.”  
  
At that, Scotty brightened. “Best not to let them to themselves for too long,” he agreed.  
  
“True. Comm me when you find something we can use,” Jim said.  
  
“Aye, sir.”  
  
Discovering that Scotty’s department functioned better without non-engineers intruding into his kingdom came shortly after the ship’s departure from spacedock, but because he trusted his captain enough to let him venture down unannounced as much as he wanted to, Jim often forgot the stress that it incurred for Scotty. He put it down to geniuses being finicky and left it at that, giving Scotty some space when necessary in favor of knowing his ship had the best engineer in the fleet onboard.  
  
Still, Jim could do that surprise check-in and help the green crewmembers with any problems that cropped up, even though it had just been the first excuse he could think of in order to leave Engineering gracefully. When he arrived on the bridge, the most pressing problem involved the proper way to file a shift report, which the ensign at the tactical console thought was incomplete from gamma shift. After resolving that issue and getting a report from Sulu, who was good-naturedly supervising the younger crew again while maintaining the ship’s position from the faulty transport, Jim left the bridge. The whole visit couldn’t have taken more than twenty minutes.  
  
Jim adored this other version of Spock – really, he did – but his presence left him useless until a command decision needed to be made. Even a passing merchant ship would provide a welcome distraction at that point. Still, keeping Spock occupied and making sure his needs were met bore a reasonable similarity to entertaining diplomats en route to conferences, so at least he wasn’t entirely at loose ends.   
  
Instead of heading down to the mess for an early lunch, Jim found himself wandering down to the science labs to check on the progress on the test transmitters, for lack of shift duties. The computer science lab was packed with crew, most of whom were focused on the monitors as they typed.  
  
Since no test models of a transmitter were forthcoming, Jim turned to a middle-aged lieutenant – Argall, was it? – next to him and asked, “Is everything still in the coding stage, or –”  
  
“We’re still perfecting it, sir, but the long-range receivers lab is hosting the physical model, since it’s scrapped from their materials,” she replied.  
  
That…made a lot of sense, actually, especially considering who ran that lab. “Good to hear. Is everything going well?”  
  
“There haven’t been any major snags so far,” Argall assured him. “If there are, both you and Commander Spock will receive reports right away.”  
  
“Excellent. That’s all, Lieutenant, carry on,” he murmured, exiting the lab. As long as the work on the clarity of the signal proceeded apace, and Uhura and her minions scrapped together a functioning transmitter out of the pieces of the _Enterprise_ ’s own equipment, they’d be set on a decent timeframe for returning Spock. Assuming, of course, that it was possible.  
  
As expected, Uhura had taken charge of building the transmitter, and while she didn’t like being torn away from her work for an update, she left her personal part in the project under the supervision of her second-in-command and left without any fuss. She accompanied Jim on a tour of the lab, elaborating on the challenges of different components while pointing out what parts of existing equipment had to be sacrificed in order to complete the construction.  
  
“I’ve kept a running inventory of replacement parts we’ll need to pick up at the next starbase,” she informed him once they returned to their office. She handed him a PADD with the alarmingly-long list. “We’re not planning to compromise any essential equipment unless it becomes unavoidable, but at the current rate we’re sacrificing parts, restocking will definitely be necessary as soon as it can be arranged.”  
  
“Odds are we’ll have a stop at a starbase immediately after this situation gets resolved for a debriefing,” Jim said absently, glancing over the list. It seemed like the department was salvaging all the parts they could from each piece of equipment as it became inoperable before moving on to a new machine, which would at least keep the number of scrapped pieces of equipment to a minimum.  
  
“That’s probably for the best, sir.” After a moment’s hesitation and a quick check to make sure nobody was outside her office, she continued, “Jim, can I ask a personal question?”  
  
He set aside the PADD to give her his full attention. “Sure, Uhura. Shoot.”  
  
“How is the other Spock doing? I know he’s different, but our Spock has had enough difficulty balancing himself _without_ a prison sentence.”  
  
“I think he’s fine that way, actually. He also had a much more forgiving childhood than our Spock, seems like, so I think that’s helped him a bit,” Jim mused, shrugging. “Beyond that, why don’t you talk to him? You knew him best during the Academy, so you might notice something the rest of us wouldn’t. I was planning on picking him up for lunch soon, anyhow.”  
  
Uhura nodded. “Let me find someone to supervise in the meantime, and then I’m all yours.”  
  
Immediately, Jim clapped his hand over his heart in dramatic fashion. “Uhura! I’ve been waiting _years_ for you to say that! I’m honored, I truly am.”  
  
“Stop it,” she scolded, though at least she was smiling. Their relationship from the Academy had taken on a friendlier tone after deployment, and was all the more entertaining for it. Both knew that Jim no longer held any serious interest, and Uhura was forgiving enough that the reason for it didn’t irritate her.  
  
“Computer, what is Spock’s location?” Jim said into the wall comm panel while Uhura went to notify her subordinates.  
  
“Commander Spock is located on the bridge,” the computer’s cool tones announced. “Spock, civilian, is located in Ambassadorial Suite B.”  
  
Impressive work by Scotty’s crew, to differentiate effectively between the two life signs aboard the ship. While he waited for Uhura to return, he poked around her office, noting the uncharacteristic clutter on top of her desk that looked like it constituted the remains of one of the shuttle transponders. Jim wondered if she’d requested it from maintenance or simply absconded with it from the shuttle bay herself.  
  
“Hey, did you steal this from one of the shuttles?” Jim asked, honestly curious, as she walked into her office.  
  
She rolled her eyes. “Unfortunately, yes. Chief Reynolds said that maintenance couldn’t honor my request for the transponder until after your official order for its requisition came through, and you told us earlier to make all due haste on this project.”  
  
Jim loved his crew most of the time, and Uhura more than most because she was forever pulling out new tricks to foil the ship’s enemies, but stealing shuttle parts? That was truly awesome. Jim knew Reynolds acted like a dick to some of the crew on occasion, so it was less fun to launch an inquiry into why he didn’t cooperate with a department head’s request, but Jim highly approved of Uhura’s methods – unofficially, of course.  
  
Spock answered the door on the first chime, shoeless and clad in soft-looking black meditation robes. “Hello. Am I required to assist with the transporter coordinates?”  
  
“Nope. Spock, I’d like you to meet Lieutenant Uhura. We’re here to take you to lunch, if that’s alright with you.”  
  
“That is acceptable. Greetings, Lieutenant. I trust your proficiency in Vulcan is unparalleled across universes?”  
  
Uhura replied with a clicking, sibilant string of syllables that rendered the words indistinguishable from each other. Struck speechless, Jim wondered how easy his First Officer went on him whenever he asked for a word or phrase translated into Vulcan, because the response he got was always much slower. Sourly, Jim noticed that the pleased look on this Spock’s face seemed much different than the indulgent response his attempts at repeating the words back always garnered.  
  
Though Spock obviously recognized Uhura, he refused to say anything of her role in his universe, smoothly deflecting all inquiries until they reached the officer’s mess. Upon their arrival, Jim spotted his First Officer at one of the corner tables, steadily picking at a stir fry. He caught Spock’s eye and waved, gesturing inarticulately at the replicators to convey that they had to pick up their food first. The increasingly-present furrow between Spock’s eyebrows appeared, visible from across the small room, but Jim didn’t want to raise his voice and distract the other diners. Besides, Spock complained about the clarity of his hand signals in the transporter room, so what? If Spock thought the obvious _get out_ signal was unclear, Jim would give _really_ confusing flailing a shot.  
  
“Yes, that’s fairly common behavior,” Jim heard Uhura tell Spock, and hurried to catch up to them.  
  
The stir fry bowl didn’t seem any emptier when they approached the table, though some of the mixed fruit on the plate next to it was gone. “You may sit here, Jim,” his First said placidly, staring down his counterpart.  
  
Shrugging, Jim took the indicated spot, completely missing to the look shared between Spocks over his head. “How’s your day going so far?” he asked, noting the careful distance Spock placed between his seat and Uhura’s. Well, he had a bit more of a clue towards Uhura’s role in the other universe. Looked like she went the same way as Scotty.  
  
Hard to believe his entire crew was really that cold and xenophobic elsewhere, situation aside. Most of them fundamentally consisted of their insatiable curiosity and drive to discover new things, and even though the other Earth apparently maintained a healthy political relationship with certain other planets, Jim could hardly imagine so many of them being so closed-minded about a culture as intricate as the Vulcans possessed. Hell, other-him probably was worse, if his father was killed by aliens, too.  
  
Shaking away the unwelcome thought, Jim gave his full attention to the details of Spock’s work on the transporter. Between Scotty and Chekov, the repairs were set to be completed by late afternoon, and even Spock’s attempts at isolating the last known transport location showed promise. “If retrieving the coordinates is possible, I expect to have them for you by alpha shift tomorrow,” Spock concluded, returning to his meal. After a calculated pause, he looked up at his counterpart and asked, “What are your contributions for the day?”  
  
Spock’s first comment addressed to his counterpart since Sickbay, and despite the bland tone, it was a challenge. Naturally. Jim repressed a sigh and prepared for an intervention if necessary.  
  
His counterpart took a measured sip of his soup, unperturbed. “I have meditated extensively from yesterday evening through this morning, until Captain Kirk and Lieutenant Uhura invited me to lunch. The captain was kind enough to provide the full complement of meditation supplies for me last night. His attention to detail did not go unnoticed.”  
  
 _What the hell_. Gathering a few supplies for meditation wasn’t such a big deal.  
  
“No doubt from viewing those items after my own meditative sessions,” Spock replied coolly. “The captain is often present during or immediately after this period, as it directly precedes our set time for chess. How often is that, Jim?”  
  
“Um, twice a week?” Jim replied uncertainly, not sure why both of them were making such a big deal out of meditation all of a sudden. “Improves your thinking during the game, right?”  
  
“Precisely.” Spock set his fork down with a delicate clink against the bowl.  
  
Not that he understood his First’s instant disdain for his counterpart, but the passive-aggressiveness in the room was nearly stifling. Spock certainly seemed pleased with himself, though Jim wasn’t aware of the cause, since to his knowledge, meditation was just an important but everyday ritual for Vulcans. Jim waited for the Spock sitting across the table to deliver the next verbal bitch-slap, but it never came.   
  
Glancing between the two calmly belligerent Spocks and Jim’s utterly baffled expression, Uhura swept in to salvage the situation by asking a quiet question in Vulcan to the Spock next to her, who responded in kind. Soon they were immersed in an entirely unintelligible conversation, leaving Jim to poke glumly at his watermelon.  
  
“Now I get why you’ve been avoiding each other,” he muttered, mercilessly flinging the seeds to the side of his plate. “I get why Bones can’t stand either of you, too. You’re not this bad with the old man, are you?”  
  
“I am not. I did not mean to distress you,” Spock returned softly. He plucked a small bundle of plump purple grapes from the bunch on his plate and placed it in front of Jim as a peace offering.  
  
Jim couldn’t help a small, wistful smile as he started picking grapes off the stems and popping them into his mouth. “I know. Wish you’d tell me why that happened, though,” he said, thinking of Spock’s reluctance to disclose the reason for disliking his counterpart last night.  
  
“It appears that might become necessary,” Spock replied. Jim snorted disdainfully at the needlessly cryptic statement and ate another grape.  
  
“Is it okay if I come help you with the coordinates later?” Jim asked. Maybe if he worked on the same project but placed himself in the science labs instead of engineering, Scotty wouldn’t object to having the captain breathing over his shoulder. Of course, Spock might not want him messing around in the labs with him, either.  
  
“Of course, Jim,” Spock assured him. Jim popped the last grape off its stem and pushed it to the edge of the plate with a more genuine smile, good spirits restored. As Spock accepted the grape, his fingers brushed lightly against Jim’s, stealing a brief second of contact before retreating. Jim saw a spot of color appear high up on Spock’s cheeks in response, as well as Uhura’s amused glance their way before returning to her conversation.  
  
Seriously, Jim needed to teach Spock how to be less obvious.  
  
* * * * *  
  
The ringing of the door chime barely registered through the haze of sleep surrounding Jim, even after it woke him. After almost twenty seconds spent half-sitting up in bed, woozily yearning to nestle back into his blankets, Jim placed the sound’s identity and stood on unsteady legs. Fumbling for a shirt to supplement the boxers he slept in also took longer than it should have. “Come,” he called, pulling one out of the drawer.  
  
Spock’s counterpart entered the room confidently, but faltered when he saw Jim leaning against the divider between the office and bedroom, with bleary eyes and wild hair. “Have I disturbed your sleep, Captain?” he inquired apologetically.  
  
“Yeah, but don’t worry about it,” Jim said, shuffling over to the replicator for some coffee. “You’re a priority. Besides, you’re only here for a few days and I don’t get to see you as much as I’d like to during the day, so this is good. Computer, time?”  
  
“0023.”  
  
So much for his plan of catching up for last night’s lack of sleep with extra tonight. Jim shoved the inconvenience aside and focused on Spock. “What did you need me for? Any late-night revelations on how to return you to your universe, by any chance?”  
  
Spock – actually _fidgeted_. Not a slight shift to the side, easily excused as maintaining comfort while standing, but a clear, obvious display of discomfort. “No, but that is the subject I wish to discuss with you, if that is acceptable.”  
  
“Sure thing. Just let me get caffeinated before you lay anything heavy on me, okay?” The coffee came out at a higher temperature than Jim preferred, but he started drinking right away regardless. The more time he had to wake up, the better he would be prepared for this conversation. Spock didn’t seem overly distressed, but it certainly had to be a serious topic to require discussion in the early morning.  
  
“Very well. How are the overall repairs faring?”  
  
Jim frowned in confusion. “You’ve been working directly on them. Shouldn’t you know? The crewmembers aren’t excluding you, are they?”  
  
“They have been exceptionally courteous in their treatment of me, Jim. I have merely been assigned to smaller-scale, more detail-oriented tasks which, while important, do not afford me a view of the project in its entirety. In addition to a genuine desire for that answer, I had hoped to create the human phenomenon known as ‘small talk’ to allow you to be fully cognizant when I lay heavy things on you, as you said.”  
  
Jim snorted into his coffee. He really was sleepy to be hearing innuendo from this Spock, of all people. “Thanks, Spock. Repairs to the transporter are almost completed, which is good news for the ship as a whole, and figuring out coordinates to return you to your former location _and_ building the transmitter to make sure you’ll land there safely is on track for completion within a day or two, which is good news for you. Landing in a universe not your own is highly unsettling, as I’ve been told.”  
  
“The frequency with which your crew encounters beings from parallel universes is astounding,” Spock remarked dryly. “Do all of the ships in your fleet possess the same incidence rate?”  
  
“Definitely not,” Jim said with a chuckle. Finally feeling more awake, he finished off his coffee and gave Spock his full attention. “Okay, so what do you need?”  
  
“I would like to discuss the possibility of an extended stay in this universe,” Spock began quietly. “It is my understanding that one such visitor not only exists, but has integrated himself into your Federation and served it well.”  
  
“Oh, _hell_ ,” Jim replied, groaning. He’d gone against just about every fleet guideline for Spock before, mostly involving unsanctioned planetside rescue missions, but this request had ethical questions written all over it. “I don’t know, Spock. Your other counterpart has no known way to return to his timeline and has been invaluable in helping build the Vulcan colony, so he has to stay here. I’m not sure if it would be right to keep you here, but I’m not entirely sure if it’s right to send you back.”  
  
As much as it pained Jim to admit it, the right thing to do, probably, was sending Spock back. The whole situation seemed like a twisted version of non-interference. Ultimately, Spock might be safer and happier if he just stayed with the ship until he could be dropped off at the Vulcan colony, but he had a role to play where he came from. Certain qualities remained constant regardless of origin, and based on what he’d seen firsthand and heard from the ambassador, Spock played an important role wherever he went.  
  
Spock nodded, setting his jaw. “I understand your predicament. However, if you are amenable, I will show you that I have nothing to return to in my situation.”  
  
“Whoa, that’s not happening,” Jim said hastily, recalling the mental chaos that followed the partial meld in Sickbay. “No offense, but I don’t especially feel like letting you muck around in my head anytime soon.”  
  
“Your reluctance is understandable, but I have significantly strengthened my mental controls since that event. I assure you, I am quite capable of performing a stable, safe meld with the amount of preparation I have undergone.”  
  
As much as Jim wanted to trust Spock with that, he couldn’t help remembering the force of his First’s objections to the first meld, which, if he understood Spock correctly, would wind up being much shallower than the one he proposed. Still, Jim couldn’t be sure if Spock would object this time, now that meditation had apparently had a beneficial effect on Spock’s control of the meld. Besides, if Jim was going to get a clear picture of the other universe for both Command’s files and deciding how to proceed in this decision, this was the best way, wasn’t it?  
  
“How do you want to do this?” Jim asked.  
  
Spock directed them towards the bed, where they sat on the edge, facing each other. Jim clenched his hands in his lap, forcing himself over the brief surge of wrongness that flashed through him as Spock’s fingers descended across his face in the necessary formation.  
  
The light touch of fingers to his face sent Jim into a more carefully controlled descent than the last meld, calming some of his initial anxiety. Instead of letting loose a sudden deluge of chaotic emotions, Spock’s mind stole over his slowly, drawing him into the foreign space over a longer period so he could adjust. Once he was fully aware of his position taking up room in Spock’s mind, Spock eased him into the murk of the prison with a quick note of warning.  
  
 _The lights running along the hallway separating the cells snap off at exactly 2100 hours, blacking out his vision. His eyesight, designed for daytime activity under an ever-burning red sun, can no longer detect any shapes or traces of movement, unnerving him even after four years of these conditions. He is uncertain if this measure is another tool to control the Vulcans held in the prison, or simply an accidental byproduct of the humans’ willful ignorance towards his species. With his cellmate gone, executed after too many violent incidents that eventually culminated in the death of a guard, the dark unnerves him even more. Suril was a fool, but he was company.  
  
In the dark, where such actions are invisible and cannot be used as a sign of weakness, he runs his hands over his left thigh, rechecking the deep-tissue bruise resulting from another inmate’s clumsiness earlier in the work yards. Though he does not begrudge anyone the exhaustion that comes from long periods of living at the whims of the human guards, he does illogically wish that the other Vulcan had not lost control of his sledgehammer, sending it spiraling into Spock’s workspace. Such incidents only increase his distaste for the yard shifts, despite the true warmth it brings from the sun during the warmer months. Inside, where the tamer work shifts rotate between rooms, the cold emanating from the stones of the building pricks at his bones through the insubstantial cloth of his uniform.  
  
A guard passes by the force field-enhanced bars on the door, breathing harshly against the routine sounds of Vulcans bedding down for the night, disrupting the temporary calm Spock finds in the physical examination. The sound of this one’s steps are unfamiliar, at least – certainly not those of the chief among the guards, a bulky, surly human whose strength has been honed to suppress a Vulcan by exploiting weaknesses. Spock can remember each display of strength perpetrated against him, which Giotto most often accomplishes by pressing weakened Vulcan victims against the wall of the corridor outside of the kitchens, assaulting even their weakened sense of scent with the ever-present stink of the forgotten, rotting food supplies sent to supply their different physiologies with the necessary nutrition requirements. The guards, thinking the prison system is spoiling them with the copper-rich meals sent along, consign most shipments to the back of the kitchens, occasionally persuading the cooks to break them out of their plastic crates and serve the meals to the other guards on special occasions, while the prisoners became more nutrient-deficient and lost muscle mass, morphing into undignified bags of stretched skin and too-sharp bones –_  
  
The stink of rotting food disrupted Jim’s mind enough that he broke the connection, falling away from Spock’s orderly presentation of prison life and fumbling around for a way out. Caught in the panic of childhood memories and thrown forcefully from a meld, Jim didn’t even know where to _begin_ looking for a bit of Spock’s mind to latch onto, and lurched back into an entirely changed meld experience.  
  
Each snapshot carried more context, this time, provided from his own mind instead of Spock’s – _moments shared with members of his crew, not the sadistic versions he has come to know in another reality. In this, they treat him as an equal, a decency he hasn’t been granted since his short-lived mission on the Vulcan science vessel. He finds tasks to perform, respectable work to make him helpful despite the deep-seated distaste he feels for the possibility of success in this endeavor. And Jim is the cornerstone to everything in this universe, accepting him without question based on his loyalty to another version of himself but also finding him worthy on his own merit. It is a gift of inestimable value, one that sparks a deep respect after its first implementation and reminds him of home –_  
  
Another set of images pushed their way to the forefront of Spock’s mind, startling Jim out of the meld once again. Only a few flashes of red sand and old family holos appeared before being replaced by the rapidly steadying background of the room, with the bare gray walls smoothing the transition to seeing on his own.  
  
Eventually, Jim’s head partially cleared of the pervasive dread remaining behind after the meld, leaving him highly aware of the unfamiliar sensation of Spock’s dry thumbs rasping along the lines of his cheekbones, chasing after the meld points. “What was that?” Jim asked, still overwhelmed. At least he felt like he had his head on straight again, though his thoughts alone didn’t seem enough to fill it. He still was aware enough to notice the sudden warmth that appeared in Spock’s expression, reminiscent of the last memories from the meld as he closed the gap between them, nose bumping against Jim’s.  
  
With his brain still out of commission for the immediate present, Jim acted on reflex, pushing at Spock’s shoulders with a rough intake of breath as he realized his intent. The phantom weight on his mind returned as Spock drew away sharply in response, adding to the disorientation of being ejected from the meld. Deciding to ignore the closeness issue for the meantime, Jim clutched at the front of Spock’s weird Vulcan wrap-around shirt and forcefully dragged him back, leaning against Spock’s chest while he regained control of his spinning head. His forehead knocked against the protruding ribs, allowing Jim to distance himself from the Vulcan. This was a different Spock. Jim was taking care of him now that he could, and was in the process of giving him information to better survive the conditions he’d just seen.  
  
He wanted his Spock, and didn’t regret thinking of him as such.  
  
“I – apologize,” Spock murmured, sounding shaken as well. “Evidently I underestimated the meld’s impact.”  
  
“At least you did it right this time,” Jim mumbled into Spock’s shirt. “Nothing like Sickbay. Much more realistic.” Much more like the first meld he’d ever experienced, three years earlier after watching a planet die.  
  
Spock chuffed out an amused breath. “I do aim to please, Captain.”  
  
Jim laughed a little, pushing off of Spock to test how well sitting upright suited him at the moment. None of the violent dizziness from immediately after the meld asserted itself, so Jim released his grip on Spock’s shirt and awkwardly patted the soft material a few times, trying to smooth out the wrinkles. Spock watched with one eyebrow raised as Jim finished and put a respectable distance between them.  
  
“Thank you for permitting me to share this with you,” Spock said, filling the uncomfortable silence. “I do regret the discomfort involved. It seems your mind is not quite as attuned to mine as I assumed from speaking with my counterpart.”  
  
“It’s my job to get all the angles,” Jim replied automatically, still feeling off-center from the intensity of the meld. Realizing how that might sound, he added, “I do understand why you don’t want to go back. Well. I understood before, but even more so now.”  
  
“But you have not yet reached a decision.”  
  
“Why don’t we just see if it’s even possible to return you in the first place,” Jim said, feeling exhausted beyond belief. Now that he was emotionally as well as physically tired, he ached for a good sleep so he could think it over more critically in the morning. Even then, he might be too close to the issue to make a clear decision, which might make it necessary to bring in Command to advise on the situation. While Jim still had mixed feelings on the issue and thought Command would weigh in favor of Spock’s return, there was always a possibility they might choose to use him as part of their research into alternate timelines.  
  
Spock bowed his head, looking how Jim felt. “Very well. I will leave you to rest.”  
  
Once the door closed behind Spock, Jim collapsed backwards onto the bed with a sigh, and stayed there until the urge to go next door and talk to his Spock passed.  
  
* * * * *  
  
An insistent whistle from the desk comm substituted for Jim’s alarm the next morning, jolting him from a deep but uneasy sleep that left him more tired when he woke than when he’d fallen asleep. “Kirk here,” he called across the room, crossing over to the desk once he untangled himself from the sheets. “What is it?”  
  
“Spock here, Captain. I have completed our earlier work on the transporter coordinates and am prepared to test transmitter response.”  
  
Wait – they’d made progress on isolating the coordinates from the huge bank of data gathered during every transport, but not enough to finish so soon. Normally Spock only worked half of gamma shift if he was on alpha the next morning, but with his antagonism towards his counterpart, Jim suspected he worked through the night on this part of the problem. Probably not the best time to bring up his doubts about sending his counterpart back, then. “I’ll meet you in the transporter room in ten minutes. Does Uhura have multiple transmitters ready yet, or just the one?”  
  
“Two are completed at this time, with four more on track for completion by the end of alpha shift today if necessary.”  
  
“Okay. Get Chekov and Kyle there for transport – I want them there if Scotty needs help.”  
  
“Understood, Captain.”  
  
“Great. Kirk out.”  
  
After brushing his teeth and taking a leak, Jim struggled into his uniform, getting momentarily stuck in his undershirt in his haste to get dressed. He made it down to the transporter room in just over eight minutes and was pleased to find Scotty directing Kyle and Chekov at the control panel. Spock was crouched next to the small transmitter set onto one of the transporter pads, running a tricorder over it as a last-minute systems check.  
  
“Is everything ready to go?” Jim asked, sitting on the stairs to the pad, right by Spock’s leg.  
  
“All parts are functioning at optimum levels,” Spock replied, handing over the tricorder. All readings showed well within acceptable levels, thanks to being well-built and precisely calibrated to the controls. Handling the small machine carefully, Spock positioned it in the center of one of the transporter pads, turned on the power, and checked the signal strength. Satisfied with the readings, he switched off his tricorder and went down the short set of stairs, briefly touching Jim on the knee to prompt him into moving away from the platform. Jim got up from his easy sprawl and followed Spock behind the controls, where Scotty started applying the power to the transporter.  
  
“Ready to activate when you are, sir,” Scotty told him after double-checking the settings.  
  
“We’re completely ready for the first trial, right?” Jim confirmed, and Spock nodded. “Beam it out now, Scotty.”  
  
“Energizing,” Scotty replied obediently, dialing up the power. The pad hummed with energy as the lights obscured Jim’s view of the transmitter, swallowing up the machine like a normal transport. When the lights dissipated, however, the transmitter remained in place on the pad.  
  
“Does anyone know what happened?” Jim asked the room at large.  
  
Spock answered first, swiftly transferring the data gathered on the failed transport from the control screen to his PADD. “Though this first trial was necessary to establish the required parameters for transport between universes, I suspected it might not be successful. Sensors indicate that an ion storm similar in strength to the one that facilitated my counterpart’s transport will arrive within seven minutes. At that time, the chances of success increase to eighty point nine percent.”  
  
“Do we have to try this?” Jim asked. Throwing a storm into the mix of variables only increased the chance of connecting to yet another parallel universe, though at least the transmitter would allow them to be reasonably certain if it appeared in Spock’s universe. Even so, ion storms were nothing to fool around with, especially with the transporters just fixed.   
  
“I see no alternative, Captain. The first trial proceeded without the aid of an ion storm to test if it was a necessary factor in transport. Based on the energy output in the data we just collected, I believe that transport to these coordinates is impossible without the storm,” Spock replied.  
  
Pressing the comm button recessed into the control panel, Jim said, “Kirk to bridge.”  
  
“Bridge here, Captain.”  
  
“Go to yellow alert; ion storm incoming in approximately seven minutes. Get the Science officer on the bridge to monitor it. If the intensity changes significantly before it hits, let me know, but for now just activate shields.”  
  
“Got it, Captain. Bridge out.”  
  
No further reports came down from the bridge before the storm enveloped the ship, and after a moment of waiting to make sure the storm hit at full strength, Scotty readied the controls again.  
  
“Bridge, lower shields for transport,” Jim ordered into the comm. Once he received confirmation, he nodded at Scotty. “Let’s try it again now.”  
  
The lights of the transporter swirled around the transmitter on cue, and when the brightness faded, the pad was cleared. The fact that the transmitter went _somewhere_ was a good sign, at least, though the accuracy of its destination remained in question.  
  
From its resting place atop the control panel, the receiver tuned into the transmitter’s secure frequency chirped, indicating an incoming signal. Spock bent over the small display intently and said, “Signal contains information on transmitter’s current location. Atmospheric readings correspond with the percent composition of Earth’s atmosphere, and humidity and temperature fall within averages for the prison’s location during the season of my counterpart’s departure. However – ” A small crease appeared in Spock’s forehead.  
  
“What is it, Commander?” Scotty asked.  
  
“Readings indicate a large energy disturbance, far higher than any disturbance resulting from the transmitter’s transport to this location,” Spock replied, sounding puzzled. “I am unsure of its cause. There are no other energy sources with this capability marked as present within the transmitter’s range of analysis.”  
  
Jim cleared his throat. “Is it about, I don’t know, twice what you’d expect for the transport?” he asked, remembering one of the unusual aspects of isolating the destination coordinates.  
  
“The readings are one point seven two times that estimate,” Spock answered, tilting his head in Jim’s direction. “Captain, what is your hypothesis?”  
  
“It’s gonna sound crazy,” he said as a disclaimer, looking between the four others gathered at the controls. All four wore similar exasperated, _get-on-with-it_ expressions.  
  
“Maybe it went through at the same time the other Spock beamed in here. The coordinates of his location were hard to find because their formatting wasn’t like other transport coordinates, so the other portion could refer to the specific time Spock got beamed into our universe.”  
  
Scotty nodded thoughtfully and said, “That could do it,” while Chekov looked as though he might be doing the calculations in his head. Spock refocused on the receiver, starting up the control sequence to return the transmitter to the transporter pad.  
  
“The readings provide a rough estimate of the transmitter’s location. If my counterpart confirms that location as his position at the moment of transport, your suggestion may have merit, Captain, and we can attempt to compensate for this variable.”  
  
…He’d just given himself more work, hadn’t he.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Three and a half hours later, after Scotty succeeded in retrieving the transmitter, Chekov finished exhaustively transferring the recorded data into the ship’s computer, rendering a map of the interior of Spock’s cell so they didn’t materialize him into the same exact position as the transmitter and fuse the two together by accident. At that point, Jim escaped the conference room where Chekov and Spock were collaborating on the calculations to adjust his counterpart’s destination to a safer corner of his cell. Now that the test ruled a return trip possible, the uncertainty over what to do with Spock returned. Fortunately, Jim had an advisor – a whole board of advisors, actually – he was required to turn to, since his ability to make a decision was now in question due to the nature of a meld. He retreated to his room and quickly drank some coffee and ate a sandwich while he waited for the connection to go through.  
  
Jim returned from changing his uniform shirt and brushing his teeth to make himself presentable to find Pike’s amused face on the screen. “Good thing you didn’t keep Komack waiting on the line,” he greeted dryly. “Or Nogura. Or Barnett.”  
  
“Yeah, you’re the only admiral who ever loved me and I should be forever grateful, got it,” Jim replied with just as much sarcasm. “Anyway, I have a serious concern for you. Have you received all of my reports on the parallel?”  
  
“I have. Interesting reading.”  
  
“Good. We should have expected this, but because of the conditions described in those reports, the other Spock has no desire to return to his original universe. He wants to petition for his right to remain here.”  
  
Pike’s eyebrows flew up incredulously. “What is it with you and strays, Kirk?” he asked, rubbing a hand across his face. “Okay. I’ll call a meeting tomorrow. What’s your recommendation?”  
  
“I can’t have one. We melded so he could show me more details about the parallel universe. I’m too close to the situation to make a decision,” Jim admitted.  
  
Pike groaned. “Did I ever tell you I hate being your ship’s direct supervisor?” he bitched.  
  
“All the time,” Jim chipped in, taking a perverse delight in contributing to Pike’s constant state of exasperation. He felt a little better about having the decision off his shoulders now, too.  
  
“Are you officially requesting to have the option of resolving the situation at your discretion removed from the list of possibilities?”  
  
Jim nodded. The door chimed, and Jim called out for the visitor to enter. Sure enough, it was Spock. Jim held up one finger and gestured towards the screen, so Spock sat down on the small couch set on the other side of the office.  
  
“Just making sure,” Pike remarked mildly, noting the decision on his PADD. “Don’t go too hard on yourself with this one, Jim.”  
  
Jim offered him a half-smile. “I’ll try.”  
  
“I’ll contact you tomorrow afternoon with our decision. Command out.” The image on the screen disappeared.  
  
“Sorry about that,” Jim said, rolling his chair away from the desk so that he was facing Spock instead of the computer. “Did you need something?”  
  
“Negative, Jim. Ensign Chekov is making significant progress in the adjustment calculations, and Mr. Scott is prepared to update the transporter with the new coordinates when they become available. I have no further work to complete and sought your company.”  
  
Jim leaned back in the chair so it dipped back, smiling a bit. “There you go. You haven’t been acting like yourself the whole time your counterpart’s been here.”  
  
“With regards to my counterpart, may I ask why Admiral Pike is concerned about you?”  
  
“I have to leave the decision on his return to the admiralty.” As much as Jim hated to admit it out loud, he forced the words out. “Your counterpart showed me what his universe is like, and because of that, I’m compromised enough that I can’t make the call myself.”  
  
Too late, Jim realized that Spock’s hands had tightened into fists, and his eyebrows were drawn low over narrowed eyes. “He showed you,” Spock said in a low voice, making it clear he knew what Jim meant.  
  
“Yeah. He said a meld would make it easier for me to get the whole picture so I could make a fully informed decision on returning him, but that backfired. Now it’s up to the admiralty.”  
  
Spock huffed out an aggravated breath. “Jim, I understand that the ambassador’s casual attitude towards melding with you may have left you with the wrong impression, but melding is a highly intimate act. You should not have allowed him to take such liberties.”  
  
“I can take care of myself,” Jim replied, trying not to get irritated at Spock’s misplaced protectiveness. It often proved useful on away missions, but not so much during his counterpart’s stay here. “And I stopped him before he could do anything, okay? The only thing he violated was my personal space.”  
  
“I presume he has made it clear that he intends to pursue you,” Spock said disapprovingly.  
  
“He did. But you know more than anybody else that even though you two are genetically the same, you’re two different people. He’s not the one I want, Spock.” Neither of them had gone this far, to actually verbalize this mutually acknowledged tension between them that could form as soon as they got around to it. “I want to _protect_ him, but that’s it. Everything else…I want you for that. I thought you understood.”  
  
“I do. I believe I have also made my agreement known on multiple occasions.”  
  
Jim sucked in a breath and expelled it heavily. “I know there’s never really been an ideal time to sort things out, but maybe we could get our act together now?”  
  
Spock’s eyes gleamed with amusement as he adjusted his seat, angling his upper body towards Jim to lend his full attention to the conversation. “Certainly. If you are amenable, we could officially designate tonight’s meal as a ‘first date.’”  
  
Grinning hugely, Jim got up from the chair and strolled over to Spock, deciding _to hell with it_ and fitting his legs between Spock’s, giving up on personal space entirely. Not like they’d had many problems with it the past year, anyway. “Sounds good to me,” Jim said, leaning over to kiss Spock in agreement, since he was very much on board with the dating plan. He meant to keep it quick, too, but then Spock reached up and tugged him down into his lap, and it soon moved on from chaste. Even so, it was a hell of a lot better than what Jim thought the near-miss last night would have been, because as much as he liked the other Spock – this was more comfortable than anything, the way he only felt around _his_ Spock, completely wrapped up in him in the only way he’d never been before. Even when Jim drew away, he stayed close, giving in to the urge to feel the point of Spock’s ear now that he was presumably allowed to touch.  
  
“I was led to believe that it is customary to wait until after the first date to kiss,” Spock said, muffling the words against Jim’s neck.  
  
“Ex _cuse_ me, but I didn’t notice you complaining,” Jim retorted, adjusting his legs so he was straddling Spock. It made Spock’s lap a lot more comfortable. “Hey, is there a set time before melding? Because I really don’t have a problem with you taking liberties with me.”  
  
Spock hummed low in his throat as he traced the skin around Jim’s temple, brushing back a stray tuft of hair. “Melding is usually reserved for later in a relationship. However, considering the fact that we have melded already in the line of duty, I believe it would not be problematic, if that is your wish.”  
  
Enough about _his_ wish; Jim could see how much Spock wanted the meld, too, from the oddly reverent touch of fingers to his skin. He knew what melding meant to Vulcans, at this point, and he knew this one would be different than their others, the last of which took place on a disastrous away mission five months earlier. The only good thing to come out of the chaotic exchange of information was the barest hint of mutual interest Jim had gleaned from Spock’s well-shielded mind, which during the past months had kept him from feeling like a total idiot for falling for his First Officer. “Well, it’d be nice to have a positive experience with telepathy for once,” Jim pointed out with a shrug.  
  
Spock’s thumb swept down Jim’s cheek and nudged up against his nose, falling into the correct position. “Very well,” Spock agreed readily, before opening up the connection between their minds.  
  
Without the ritual words to warn him, Jim felt momentarily adrift as his mind came together with Spock’s. Even after participating in several melds for various reasons in the past, his mind was still not designed for it, so he followed the part he could sense was guiding the meld, correctly identifying Spock among the unfamiliar setting. Not that this one had any particular direction – unlike all the others, which focused on transferring vital information between the two parties, this was pure indulgence, a peaceful joining once Jim started to adjust to the still-alien sensations. The lighter touch had merits, Jim decided, feeling himself pulled more fully into what he presumed was Spock’s headspace, where the all-encompassing haze solidified somewhat into the stream of Spock’s thoughts – very neatly organized, though Jim would have expected no less – which bypassed them completely and left them untouched.  
  
Experimentally, Jim pushed himself closer towards Spock and startled slightly as they merged together without resistance. The uneasy floating sensation thankfully disappeared, changing the feel of the meld entirely as they wrapped around each other. Even during the meld the night before, when Spock’s counterpart projected all positive emotions towards him, Jim only felt a vaguely secondhand pleasure that Spock gained from touching another mind so attuned to his, similar but gentler than the first meld they shared in Sickbay. This one felt different – instead of only satisfying Spock, it lent a bone-deep warmth to Jim for the first time. He clung tighter to Spock’s mind, trying to convey his gratitude for sharing this, still marveling at how easily they rested against each other among the ever-changing background of Spock’s thoughts. No wonder Vulcans held melding in such high regard, if they felt this every time.  
  
A stray thought broke out of formation and headed for Jim, telling him _not every time_. Seemed unlikely, with how enamored all Spocks seemed to be with his mind, but he’d trust Spock on that. Jim felt too comfortable, drifting with Spock as he was, to protest anything.   
  
Eventually, Jim tried moving on his own out of curiosity, burrowing firmly against Spock for lack of anywhere else to go. His movements were imprecise, but produced a reverberation that passed through his indistinct form as he merged further with Spock. Another attempt yielded the same results and allowed him to pinpoint the sensation. Of _course_ the first clear feeling he could project and absorb through a meld would be lust.  
  
Spock seemed to pick up on his amusement, disrupting the pleasant, aimless drifting of the meld to probe inquiringly at the source, finding it with little difficulty. Jim felt it when Spock recognized the feeling for what it was, as the pocket of thought surrounding them scattered and Spock drew away, relegating Jim to the company of his own mind for a moment before jolting them back together. The lazy quality of the first part of the meld was gone, this time, overtaken by the force of the long-delayed lust ricocheting between them. It made the connection too difficult to maintain, apparently – Spock dropped them out abruptly, staring up at Jim with wide eyes and shifting helplessly beneath him.  
  
Jim had an idea for the reason behind Spock’s fidgeting, which became apparent as soon as Jim adjusted his seat. Soothing him with a kiss, Jim brushed his fingers against the fly of his pants where his erection strained against the fabric. Spock made a ridiculously endearing whining noise into Jim’s mouth at the slight pressure, and – well, Jim had made friends with Spock by the end of his relationship with Uhura, and knew for a fact that he’d never done anything remotely close to this before. “This okay?” Jim asked, just to check. He certainly wasn’t one to complain, but he knew Vulcan and human cultures didn’t always align on the topic and for probably the first time in his life, he actually felt willing to wait. Jim blamed Spock entirely for making him so serious about this when previously the thought of anything long-term would have seemed out of the question, but they’d been close enough to a relationship for long enough that he’d long since become accustomed to the idea.  
  
“ _Jim_ ,” Spock said demandingly, voice down to a low rumble and settling the issue. The confirmation sent Jim tearing at the button, taking longer than usual to undo the zip with the added distraction of Spock’s hands on his ass. After the brief difficulty that caused, Jim was finally able to push the pants and briefs down far enough to free Spock’s dick.  
  
He finally had his hands on the mysterious Vulcan cock, and it was _gorgeous_. Jim couldn’t help sneaking a glance downwards from his vantage point as he gripped it, swiping a thumb experimentally under the head. Judging by the startled jolt and low moan Spock released, Vulcans had roughly the same sensitive areas as humans. Besides that, it was green, which delighted Jim to no end.  
  
Jim just grinned and started jerking Spock’s cock in slow strokes, absolutely fascinated by the sound that resulted from tracing along the slit, until Spock unexpectedly stilled him with a hand on Jim’s wrist. Confused, Jim stopped and watched as Spock fumbled one-handed at Jim’s pants, failing completely at removing them. With a small frown, Spock yanked on the button one more time and sent it skittering off behind the couch for his troubles.  
  
The look on Spock’s face took on a distinctly annoyed edge at the further delay to Jim’s hand reuniting with his dick. Despite the urge to give in to a fit of laughter – because seriously, he’d ripped enough shirts aboard the ship, might as well move on to pants – Jim took pity on him and stood, stripping off his pants and briefs entirely before returning to his spot on Spock’s lap in a manner of seconds. “Better?” he asked, laughing a little as he tucked his face into Spock’s neck. It occurred to him that maybe he should act a little more mature when he and Spock had just sorted their shit out and were finally having some much-anticipated sex, but honestly, that wasn’t likely to happen any time soon.  
  
Unfairly, Spock got him to shut up by taking both their cocks in hand and stroking, leaving Jim’s laugh to trail off into a muffled moan. Since Spock’s grip was a little uncertain still, Jim put his own hand over Spock’s to guide him, adding more pressure until it was _just_ enough. Shit, Spock must not have even jerked off before – the little noise he had to hide every time Jim did something new sounded more shocked than anything, culminating in a long, low whine as Jim twisted their hands unexpectedly, rubbing Spock’s palm across both the heads in one rough motion.  
  
No way Spock was going to last for much longer, going by the halting breaths pressed into Jim’s cheek and the rocking of his hips against Jim’s weight on his lap. Jim nipped at Spock’s lower lip and dragged a thumbnail across the back of Spock’s fingers, helping to send Spock over the edge, shuddering once against Jim as he came.  
  
“God _damn_ ,” Jim said, heartfelt, hand stuttering but keeping hold of Spock’s as he took in the sight. As private as Spock usually was, he rarely let anyone see him vulnerable, and the fact that he was letting Jim in for something beyond illness or injury overwhelmed him with the incredible trust it implied. His chest tightened as he fully realized the magnitude of this change, that it was an affirmation of , and Jim had pause and lean his forehead against Spock’s to catch his breath.  
  
Once Spock was through it, Jim adjusted their come-slicked hands around his cock and started rutting upwards into them. The look of relaxed satisfaction on Spock’s face made a serious effort in helping him along, and within a minute Jim was coming all over Spock’s stomach, leaving him to marvel at just how debauched Spock looked like that. Debauched was a good look on Spock, he decided, though he was looking forward to the opportunity of being even more thorough in making him look like that in the future.  
  
Jim slung both arms over Spock’s shoulders and pulled him in for a few lazy, contented kisses before even thinking about cleaning up. Sighing at the mess covering them, Jim pulled away and stripped off his shirts, using the undershirt to wipe off their stomachs and thighs. It worked well enough to get them mostly clean and wound up tossed onto the floor, leaving all of Jim’s clothes in one heap while Spock remained mostly dressed. Probably for the best, considering the difference in comfortable climate settings.  
  
Jim took a look down at them and then at the divider separating them from a full-size bed. “Any chance you’ll want to move in the next few minutes?” he mused, wondering if the extra space and lack of cramped limbs would make the move worth it.  
  
Both of Spock’s hands returned to his ass in response, allowing Spock to stand and relocate them to the bed, where Jim sprawled bonelessly over the closest half of Spock’s chest. “Wake me up for a normal dinner time, will you?” he asked, resting his head on a patch of black hair for the novelty of it.  
  
“I shall.” The rumble of Spock’s voice through his ribcage tickled Jim’s ear even more, and he snorted, remembering Spock’s earlier concerns.  
  
“By the way, sex before the first date? Less common than kissing before it.”  
  
“Understandable.”  
  
“We’ll just need to make it an awesome date, then.”  
  
“That is acceptable, Jim.”  
  
Jim wasn’t entirely sure if Spock followed his logic for this situation or was just indulging him, but really, it didn’t matter much. And anyway, of _course_ it was going to be an awesome date. They’d been practicing for years now.


	4. Chapter 4 + Epilogue

“This is going to be horrible,” Jim muttered, pressing the door chime. Next to him, Spock brushed a hand against his, a barely-there show of support that eased the sick feeling in his stomach somewhat.  
  
Spock answered the summons after nearly a minute of uncomfortable waiting, dressed again in his meditation robes. “Good morning, Captain, Commander,” he greeted serenely, stepping back to allow them inside the room. “Were my descriptions of the cell useful in your calculations?”  
  
“They were,” Spock replied tersely, but without any of the antagonism of the past several days. “Your assistance allowed us to finish the calculations with fewer trials.”  
  
“That’s what we need to ask you about,” Jim interjected, looking over at Spock in surprise. Not that Jim expected him to handle the situation with anything less than professionalism – previous sarcasm aside – but coming from Spock, this level of courtesy bordered on indulgent. “The trials were successful.”  
  
Spock inclined his head, gracefully settling down on the low couch recessed into the wall. Swathed in the loose material of the traditional robes, he looked more comfortable in his own skin than the vulnerable, angry prisoner who’d appeared on the transporter pad five days earlier, even with his hair cut close and bones pressing sharply against his skin. “I suspected as much.”  
  
“I’ll hear from Command later this afternoon, so I wanted to make sure you’re ready for whatever decision they make,” Jim said, taking a seat on the opposite couch. Spock remained standing between them and placed his hands behind his back, letting Jim handle the situation. “For the record, though, I lodged a petition on your behalf to let you to stay here. We’ll have to wait and see, but I think you have a good chance of being allowed to stay.”  
  
“That will not be necessary,” Spock replied. “I wish to return to my universe.”  
  
“Why? You _showed_ me; if you go back there you’ll just be in prison for life!”  
  
Spock shook his head. “I deeply appreciate all that you and your crew have contributed towards my well-being. However, I have meditated extensively on this topic and realize that permanent occupancy of a different universe would not be wise. I am superfluous here, and though I may superficially be more comfortable were I to remain in this universe, I would indeed rob myself of any chance to improve my own. Here, there exists a far more peaceful integration of alien races and cooperation between Vulcans and others than I ever thought possible. There are limited versions of these institutions in the political situation I know, but fractured into contending alliances instead of the cohesive whole displayed here. While it will take a significant amount of time, I do wish to lessen the violence. I believe this will provide sufficient incentive for an escape from my prison,” he added. One corner of his mouth curved up into a hint of a smile, and Jim recognized the determination to fix an impossible situation from long experience, aching with the hope that Spock could fix this one.  
  
“Okay,” Jim found himself agreeing. “We’d better do it before the admirals call back, in case they want to keep you.”  
  
Spock’s eyes swept up Jim’s body as they both stood, making his appreciation clear. “In another case, I might find myself amenable to being kept,” he remarked mildly. Standing apart from the two, Jim’s First observed with only the bare edge of caution. “In this instance, however, I think that role has been filled. I look forward to serving in such a capacity in the future, if circumstances allow.”  
  
“I do not believe any factor as random as circumstance will play any significant role,” Spock offered, taking a place beside Jim and brushing their fingers together in a more deliberate motion. As far as blatant displays went, at least it was tame by human standards. Jim didn’t want to think about Vulcan standards. “If I am not mistaken, you will find a much more reliable force to guide such events.”  
  
“Be that as it may, I would make one request before I begin to prepare for transport,” his counterpart said. Though his voice sounded even, his eyes betrayed the possibility of mischief.  
  
Oblivious, Jim asked, “What?”  
  
Leaning in, Spock pressed a firm kiss to Jim’s mouth, finally following up on his attempt the night before. Though he kept it brief in deference to his counterpart’s new role, he used his time wisely, leaving Jim winded as he pulled away. In response to the raised eyebrow Jim could _feel_ directed at them, Spock said, “To last until I find my own.”  
  
“You sure you don’t need another?” Jim asked, somewhat dazedly. In his defense, he wasn’t quite accustomed to getting kissed by Spock, even if it was the wrong one, so he thought he could be excused. Judging by the two raised eyebrows he received, neither Spock saw it his way.  
  
The communicator attached to Spock’s belt chirped. “We’re ready for transport, sir,” Scotty reported.  
  
“Acknowledged, Mr. Scott.” Replacing the comm, Spock looked to his counterpart. “Are you prepared?”  
  
“One moment,” he said, retreating to the partitioned bedroom area. Since it was fully enclosed, unlike the crew cabins, Jim had to wait in confusion until he reemerged, clothed in the dirty, worn prison uniform Bones had removed shortly after his arrival. He looked smaller without the excess fabric of the robe to obscure his slight frame.  
  
“Will your superiors object if you return me without first consulting them?” Spock asked. “I can record a message regarding my decision for their benefit, if you wish.”  
  
Jim shook his head. “I’ll take care of it,” he said, heading for the door. His First Officer followed at the end of the line as they proceeded down the hallway to the turbolift, allowing his counterpart to speak with Jim in the last few minutes before his departure. “I think they’ll agree that it’s more important for you to help out in your own universe than serve as some additional data for ours.”  
  
“You sound rather confident that I will be able to exert some influence over the circumstances of my universe, Jim. You are aware that I will be returned to prison, correct?” Spock asked, sounding indulgent.  
  
“Well, I wish we could send you back with some supplies or transport you out of your cell, but that’s a bit more interference than we’re allowed, even in special cases like yours,” Jim said apologetically, leading the way into the turbolift and punching in the deck selection. “But I know you can do it. All the other versions of you have done some pretty impossible stuff before, too.”  
  
“I am certain I have not fulfilled any criteria for ‘impossible’ tasks, Jim,” his First said mildly as they filed out of the turbolift and headed for the transporter room.  
  
“Yeah, because everyone can save Earth, create a formula to start the engines without a warm-up, and return a lost shuttle to the ship with no fuel. You’re not fooling anyone, and _you_ can do the same,” Jim pointed out. When they entered the room, Scotty brightened behind the controls and nodded respectfully at them.  
  
“Everything’s ready, Scotty?” Jim asked.  
  
“Aye, sir. I’ll be sad to see you go, Mr. Spock,” Scotty added wistfully.  
  
“Your company has been most enlightening, Mr. Scott,” Spock replied, his amiable tone at odds with the tension visible in the set of his shoulders. Taking a quick breath, he steeled himself and turned to Jim.  
  
“Your service honors me,” he murmured, reaching up to brush his fingertips against Jim’s temple, sparking a brief burst of gratitude there until his hand fell away.  
  
Spock stepped away, and Jim offered him a tight smile. “Glad you stopped by,” he said. Goddamn, he hated letting Spock go back. He hated even sending anyone on dangerous away missions, but there would be no status report on this one. As much as he tried to ignore the feeling and focus on Spock’s resolve to get free and find his Kirk, sending him off seemed like abandonment.  
  
He liked this Spock. A lot. And maybe he was just spoiled from having his First Officer with him in everything and the ambassador as a constant source of reassurance, but a selfish part of him that remembered the years of continuously required validation wanted to keep this Spock as well.  
  
The set of Spock’s shoulders relaxed slightly, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “As am I. Goodbye, Jim.”  
  
“Bye,” Jim said, voice cracking imperceptibly. Next to him, Spock and Scotty echoed the farewell as Spock took his place on the transporter pad.  
  
“Energize.”  
  
The beam of the transporter swallowed him.  
  
* * * * *  
  
EPILOGUE  
  
  
  
The shimmer of a transporter beam flashed in the corner of Spock’s vision as he rematerialized on the hard bench of his cell. Turning his head to the side, he barely caught the transmitter’s disappearance, simultaneous with his own appearance. Spock found himself hoping that the military police guarding the compound did not pick up on the minimal activity through the multitude of cameras positioned throughout the hallways – if he was fortunate, no cameras were pointing towards his cell at the time.  
  
Spock settled into an easy cross-legged position, allowing a minor lapse in discipline by leaning his weight against the cold concrete of the wall. After the emotional strain required in order to ensure that the captain would return him here, he permitted the indulgence for the moment, protected against judgment by the others by the darkened halls.  
  
As for the others – he didn’t yet feel certain that he should inform other inmates of his future attempts to return to Vulcan. While he knew he could trust select members of his former crew with the knowledge of his foray into the alternate universe, plenty of inmates had put forth potential escape scenarios, none of which ever succeeded. The remote nature of the location precluded any attempts lacking help from human allies, who were systematically rotated to different parts of the prison or out of the compound entirely in order to prevent such occurrences. Even so, the humans he had found trustworthy in the more peaceful universe did not have equally well-meaning counterparts, leaving him with no definite way of appealing to potential allies. The next round of guards, cropped from military members on leave, were set to arrive in three weeks’ time. Spock could start by testing his crewmates in the interim, then move on to locating human targets with enough apathy towards Earth’s recent military campaigns. Likely one or two could serve well enough, with application of enough persuasion.  
  
That night, he meditated deeply on possible aspects of the prison he could turn to his advantage in escaping. With the brief respite from this universe that the starship had provided him, Spock was able to reach some of the higher levels for the first time during his imprisonment.  
  
The following weeks began his foray into information-gathering, starting with discreet questions to former shipmates who worked primarily in one area of the prison. Like most, Spock’s assignment rotated between menial tasks in different workstations, but others had gained permanent assignment to the cafeteria or shipping dock or Sickbay. None of those he spoke to stood out to him as beneficial to the meticulous planning that an escape would require, and Spock resigned himself again to staking the increasingly-dwindling chances of release on the incoming crop of guards. Surely one could be bribed with money or freedom from the military service – not many volunteered their services to the position, and with the majority unhappy with their assignment, Spock thought it might be possible to find the one or two accomplices necessary. It would require more effort than with the help of another Vulcan, but his further understanding of human behaviors and motivations could only aid him.  
  
On the day of the guard rotation, Spock took a position near the fence of the quarrying yard, where he could watch the incoming crop to rule out those who were fundamentally xenophobic. A group of six towards the front of the line walking into the prison’s main doors marked themselves as untouchable from the start, from the loud jokes about devil ears specially projected for the Vulcans’ hearing. The rest of the group passed in similar fashion, though some simply peered curiously at the ongoing labor or ignored the yard entirely. Altogether a disheartening group, though Spock thought he might be able to salvage a chance at some relationship with some bribery. He returned to his work with less force behind his swings, fixing the faces of the guards who could potentially be swayed in his mind for the occasion when he would encounter each of them face-to-face. Though he kept his focus ostensibly on his work, Spock remained attentive to the chatter of the new group, in case some relevant information appeared among the background of questions about the health of family members, colorful stories from recent military tours –  
  
– and from the rear of the line, a Southern drawl grumbling about understaffed medical wards. Chipping further at the unyielding stone with his sledgehammer, Spock kept his head down as the yard supervisor passed by, lifting it to look only once the man moved to another row of workers. As he glanced up again, eyes roving the pack of guards passing through the door, he pinpointed the speaker among the crowd.  
  
All military personnel were required to serve a stint at the prison, providing a more experienced pool of guards than one made entirely of regular law enforcement. Spock had thought it would be more improbable than this, but considering his observations in the other universe, perhaps it was more likely than not that Spock would meet some of their counterparts in his setting. Still, the reappearance of those he had not expected to see for months or years caused an illogical warmth in his lower abdomen as he stared unabashedly, ignoring the chance of being caught to catch a glimpse of the figure he sought.  
  
Next to the speaker, a blond head turned in profile, placing a conciliatory hand on the doctor’s shoulder.  
  
Perhaps Spock knew where to start.  
  
  
  
END


End file.
